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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PR9199.2 

.P37 

P5 

1898 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
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may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


RET 

DUE  ■ 

RET 

DUE 

Form  No.  513, 

Rev.  1/84 

PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2020  with  funding  from 
University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


https://archive.org/details/pierrehispeoplet00park_2 


PIERRE 

AND  HIS  PEOPLE 


TALES  OF  THE  FAR  NORTH 


.X  !  - 

BY 

GILBERT  PARKER 


I 


HARPER  6-  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


Books  by 

GILBERT  PARKER 

[  Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers  ] 

The  Judgment  House . Post  8vo  net  $1.36 

Cumner’s  Son . Post  8vo  1.20 

Northern  Lights.  Illustrated . Post  8vo  1.50 

The  Weavers.  Illustrated  . . Post  8vo  1.50 

The  Right  of  Wat.  Illustrated ....  Post  8vo  1.50 
A  Ladder  of  Swords.  Illustrated. ..  Post  8vo  1.50 
The  Lane  That  Had  No  Turning.  .  Post  8vo  1.50 

The  Battle  of  the  Strong . Post  8vo  1.50 

An  Adventurer  of  the  North . 16mo  1.25 

A  Lover’s  Diary  (Poems) . 16mo  1.25 

Pierre  and  His  People . 16mo  1.26 

A  Romany  of  the  Snows . 16mo  1.25 

When  Valmond  Came  to  Pontiac . 16mo  1.25 

[Published  Elsewhere] 

Mrs.  Falchion. 

The  Trespasser. 

The  Translation  of  a  Savage. 

The  Trail  of  the  Sword. 

The  Seats  of  the  Mighty. 

The  Pomp  of  the  Lavilbttes. 

Donovan  Pasha. 

Old  Quebec  (In  collaboration  with 
C.  G.  Bryan). 

Round  The  Compass  in  Australia. 

Embers  (Private  Publication  only). 


Copyright,  1894,  by  Stone  and  Kimball 
Copyright,  1898,  by  The  Macmillan  Company 

PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 
D-O 


TO 

MY  BROTHERS 

FREDERICK,  LIONEL,  HARRY,  AND  ARTHUR, 
AND 

BLISS  CARMAN,  MY  COMRADE 


64549^ 


NOTE. 


It  is  possible  that  a  Note  on  the  country  portrayed 
in  these  stories  may  be  in  keeping.  Until  1870,  the 
Hudson’s  Bay  Company — first  granted  its  charter  by 
King  Charles  II. — practically  ruled  that  vast  region 
stretching  from  the  fiftieth  parallel  of  latitude  to  the 
Arctic  Ocean  ; — a  handful  of  adventurous  men  en¬ 
trenched  in  Forts  and  Posts,  yet  trading  with,  and 
mostly  peacefully  conquering,  many  savage  tribes. 
Once  the  sole  master  of  the  North,  the  H.  B.  C.  (as 
it  is  familiarly  called)  is  reverenced  by  the  Indians 
and  half-breeds  as  much  as,  if  not  more  than,  the 
Government  established  at  Ottawa.  It  has  had  its 
Forts  within  the  Arctic  Circle  ;  it  has  successfully 
exploited  a  country  larger  than  the  United  States. 
The  Red  River  Valley,  the  Saskatchewan  Valley, 
and  British  Columbia,  are  now  belted  by  a  great 
railway,  and  given  to  the  plough  ;  but  in  the  far 
north,  life  is  much  the  same  as  it  was  a  hundred 
years  ago.  There  the  trapper,  clerk,  trader,  and 
factor,  are  cast  in  the  mold  of  another  century, 
though  possessing  the  acuter  energies  of  this.  The 


VI 


NOTE. 


voyageur  and  courier  de  bois  still  exist,  though,  gen¬ 
erally,  under  less  picturesque  names. 

The  bare  story  of  the  hardy  and  wonderful  career 
of  the  adventurers  trading  in  Hudson’s  Bay, — of 
whom  Prince  Rupert  was  once  chiefest, — and  the 
life  of  the  prairies,  may  be  found  in  histories  and 
books  of  travel ;  but  their  romances,  the  near  narra¬ 
tives  of  individual  lives,  have  waited  the  telling.  In 
this  book  I  have  tried  to  feel  my  way  towards  the 
heart  of  that  life  ; — worthy  of  being  loved  by  all 
British  men,  for  it  has  given  honest  graves  to  gallant 
fellows  of  our  breeding.  Imperfectly,  of  course,  I 
have  done  it ;  but  there  is  much  more  to  be  told. 

When  I  started  Pretty  Pierre  on  his  travels,  I  did 
not  know — nor  did  he — how  far  or  wide  his  advent¬ 
ures  and  experiences  would  run.  They  have,  how¬ 
ever,  extended  from  Quebec  in  the  east  to  British 
Columbia  in  the  west,  and  from  the  Cypress  Hills 
in  the  south  to  the  Coppermine  River  in  the  north. 
With  a  less  adventurous  man  we  had  had  fewer  hap¬ 
penings.  His  faults  were  not  of  his  race, — that  is, 
French  and  Indian, — nor  were  his  virtues ;  they  be¬ 
long  to  all  peoples.  But  the  expression  of  these  is 
affected  by  the  country  itself.  Pierre  passes  through 
this  series  of  stories,  connecting  them,  as  he  himself 
connects  two  races,  and  here  and  there  links  the  past 
of  the  Hudson’s  Bay  Company  with  more  modern 
life  and  Canadian  energy  pushing  northward.  Here 
is  something  of  romance  “  pure  and  simple,”  but 
also  traditions  and  character,  which  are  the  single 
property  of  this  austere  but  not  cheerless  heritage 
of  our  race. 

All  of  the  tales  have  appeared  in  Magazines  and 


NOTE. 


Vll 


Journals — namely,  The  National  Observer,  Macmil¬ 
lan^  s,  The  National  Review,  and  The  English  Illus¬ 
trated ;  and  The  Independent  oi  New  York.  By  the 
courtesy  of  the  proprietors  of  these  I  am  permitted 
to  republish. 

G.  P. 

Harpenden, 

Hertfordshire, 

July,  1892. 


CONTENTS 


PAGB. 

The  Patrol  of  the  Cypress  Hills .  i 

God’s  Garrison .  25 

A  Hazard  of  the  North .  ^4 

A  Prairie  Vagabond .  gg 

She  of  the  Triple  Chevron . 

Three  Outlaws .  127 

Shon  McGann’s  Toboggan  Ride . 

Pere  Champagne .  igi 

The  Scarlet  Hunter .  igg 

The  Stone  . igi 

The  Tall  Master . 200 

The  Crimson  Flag .  220 

The  Flood .  229 

In  Pipi  Valley .  239 

The  Cipher .  261 

A  Tragedy  of  Nobodies .  271 

Antoine  and  Angelique .  280 

A  Sanctuary  of  the  Plains .  288 


■j:  ^.■79:1  y.'. 


■.T« 


\-  r  J 


■<*5 


*i 


1 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 


The,  Patrol  of  the  Cypress  Hills. 

“  He’s  too  ha’sh,”  said  old  Alexander  Windsor,  as 
he  shut  the  creaking  door  of  the  store  after  a  vanish¬ 
ing  figure,  and  turned  to  the  big  iron  stove  with  out¬ 
stretched  hands  ;  hands  that  were  cold  both  summer 
and  winter.  He  was  of  lean  and  frigid  make. 

“  Sergeant  Fones  is  too  ha’sh,”  he  repeated,  as  he 
pulled  out  the  damper  and  cleared  away  the  ashes 
with  the  iron  poker. 

Pretty  Pierre  blew  a  quick,  straight  column  of 
cigarette  smoke  into  the  air,  tilted  his  chair  back, 
and  said  :  “  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  ‘  ha’sh,’ 
but  he  is  the  devil.  Eh,  well,  there  was  more  than 
one  devil  made  sometime  in  the  North-West.”  He 
laughed  softly. 

“  That  gives  you  a  chance  in  history.  Pretty  Pierre,” 
said  a  voice  from  behind  a  pile  of  woolen  goods  and 
buffalo  skins  in  the  center  of  the  floor.  The  owner 
of  the  voice  then  walked  to  the  window.  He  scratched 


2 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


some  frost  from  the  pane  and  looked  out  to  where  the 
trooper  in  dog-skin  coat,  and  gauntlets,  and  cap,  was 
mounting  his  broncho.  The  old  man  came  and  stood 
near  the  young  man, — the  owner  of  the  voice, — and 
said  again  :  “  He’s  too  ha’sh.” 

“  Harsh  you  mean,  father,”  added  the  other. 

‘‘  Yes,  harsh  you  mean.  Old  Brown  Windsor, — 
quite  harsh,”  said  Pierre. 

Alexander  Windsor,  storekeeper  and  general 
dealer,  was  sometimes  called  “  Old  Brown  Wind¬ 
sor  ”  and  sometimes  “  Old  Aleck,”  to  distinguish 
him  from  his  son,  who  was  known  as  “  Young 
Aleck.” 

As  the  old  man  walked  back  again  to  the  stove  to 
warm  his  hands.  Young  Aleck  continued :  “  He  does 
his  duty :  that’s  all.  If  he  doesn’t  wear  kid  gloves 
while  at  it,  it’s  his  choice.  He  doesn’t  go  beyond 
his  duty.  You  can  bank  on  that.  It ’d  be  hard  to 
exceed  that  way  out  here.” 

“True,  Young  Aleck,  so  true;  but  then  he  wears 
gloves  of  iron,  of  ice.  That  is  not  good.  Some¬ 
time  the  glove  will  be  too  hard  and  cold  on  a  man’s 
shoulder,  and  then  !  —  Well,  I  should  like  to  be 
there,”  said  Pierre,  showing  his  white  teeth. 

Old  Aleck  shivered,  and  held  his  fingers  where 
the  stove  was  red  hot. 

The  young  man  did  not  hear  this  speech ;  he  was 
watching  Sergeant  Fones  as  he  rode  toward  the  Big 
Divide.  Presently  he  said :  “  He ’s  going  towards 

Humphrey’s  place.  I - ”  He  stopped,  bent  his 

brows,  caught  one  corner  of  his  slight  mustache 
between  his  teeth,  and  did  not  stir  a  muscle  until 
the  Sergeant  had  passed  over  the  Divide. 


THE  PATTOL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS.  3 

Old  Aleck  was  meanwhile  dilating  upon  his  theme 
before  a  passive  listener.  But  Pierre  was  only  pas¬ 
sive  outwardly.  Besides  hearlcening  to  the  father’s 
complaints  he  was  closely  watching  the  son.  Pierre 
was  clever,  and  a  good  actor.  He  had  learned  the 
power  of  reserve  and  outward  immobility.  The 
Indian  in  him  helped  him  there.  He  had  heard 
what  Young  Aleck  had  just  muttered  ;  but  to  the 
man  of  the  cold  fingers  he  said  :  “You  keep  good 
whisky  in  spite  of  the  law  and  the  iron  glove,  Old 
Aleck.”  To  the  young  man;  “  And  you  can  drink  it 
so  free,  eh.  Young  Aleck  ?  ”  The  half-breed  looked 
out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  at  the  young  man,  but 
he  did  not  raise  the  peak  of  his  fur  cap  in  doing  so, 
and  his  glances  askance  were  not  seen. 

Young  Aleck  had  been  writing  something  with  his 
finger-nail  on  the  frost  of  the  pane,  over  and  over 
again.  When  Pierre  spoke  to  him  thus  he  scratched 
out  the  word  he  had  written,  with  what  seemed  un¬ 
necessary  force.  But  in  one  corner  it  remained  : 
“  Mab - ” 

Pierre  added  :  “  That  is  what  they  say  at  Hum¬ 
phrey’s  ranch.” 

“  Who  says  that  at  Humphrey’s  ? — Pierre,  you  lie  !  ” 
was  the  sharp  and  threatening  reply.  The  signifi¬ 
cance  of  this  last  statement  had  been  often  attested 
on  the  prairies  by  the  piercing  emphasis  of  a  six- 
chambered  revolver.  It  was  evident  that  Young 
Aleck  was  in  earnest.  Pierre’s  eyes  glowed  in  the 
shadow,  but  he  idly  replied  : 

“  I  do  not  remember  quite  who  said  it.  Well,  mo7t 
ami,  perhaps  I  lie  ;  perhaps.  Sometimes  we  dream 
things,  and  these  dreams  are  true.  You  call  it  a  lie 


4 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


— hien!  Sergeant  Fones,  he  dreams  perhaps  Old 
Aleck  sells  whisky  against  the  law  to  men  you  call 
whisky  runners,  sometimes  to  Indians  and  half-breeds 
—half-breeds  like  Pretty  Pierre.  That  was  a  dream 
of  Sergeant  Fones  ;  but  you  see  he  believes  it  true. 
It  is  good  sport,  eh  ?  Will  you  not  take — what  is  it  ? 
— a  silent  partner  ?  Yes  ;  a  silent  partner,  Old  Aleck. 
Pretty  Pierre  has  spare  time,  a  little,  to  make  money 
for  his  friends  and  for  himself,  eh  ?  ” 

When  did  not  Pierre  have  time  to  spare  ?  He  was 
a  gambler.  Unlike  the  majority  of  half-breeds,  he 
had  a  pronounced  French  manner,  nonchalant  and 
debonair.  The  Indian  in  him  gave  him  coolness  and 
nerve.  His  cheeks  had  a  tinge  of  delicate  red  under 
their  whiteness,  like  those  of  a  woman.  That  was 
why  he  was  called  Pretty  Pierre.  The  country  had, 
however,  felt  a  kind  of  weird  menace  in  the  name. 
It  was  used  to  snakes  whose  rattle  gave  notice  of 
approach  or  signal  of  danger.  But  Pretty  Pierre  was 
like  the  death-adder,  small  and  beautiful,  silent  and 
deadly.  At  one  time  he  had  made  a  secret  of  his 
trade,  or  thought  he  was  doing  so.  In  those  days  he 
was  often  to  be  seen  at  David  Humphrey’s  home,  and 
often  in  talk  with  Mab  Humphrey ;  but  it  was  there 
one  night  that  the  man  who  was  ha’sh  gave  him  his 
true  character,  with  much  candor  and  no  comment. 

Afterwards  Pierre  was  not  seen  at  Humphrey’s 
ranch.  Men  prophesied  that  he  would  have  revenge 
some  day  on  Sergeant  Fones  ;  but  he  did  not  show 
anything  on  which  this  opinion  could  be  based. 
He  took  no  umbrage  at  being  called  Pretty  Pierre 
the  gambler.  But  for  all  that  he  was  possessed  of 
a  devil. 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS.  5 

Young  Aleck  had  inherited  some  money  through 
his  dead  mother  from  his  grandfather,  a  Hudson’s 
Bay  factor.  He  had  been  in  the  East  for  some  years, 
and  when  he  came  back  he  brought  his  “  little  pile  ” 
and  an  impressionable  heart  with  him.  The  former. 
Pretty  Pierre  and  his  friends  set  about  to  win  ;  the 
latter,  Mab  Humphrey  won  without  the  trying.  Yet 
Mab  gave  Young  Aleck  as  much  as  he  gave  her. 
More.  Because  her  love  sprang  from  a  simple, 
earnest,  and  uncontaminated  life.  Her  purity  and 
affection  were  being  played  against  Pierre’s  designs 
and  Young  Aleck’s  weakness.  With  Aleck  cards 
and  liquor  went  together.  Pierre  seldom  drank. 

But  what  of  Sergeant  Fones  ?  If  the  man  that 
knew  him  best — the  Commandant — had  been  asked 
for  his  history,  the  reply  would  have  been  ;  “  Five 
years  in  the  Service,  rigid  disciplinarian,  best  non¬ 
commissioned  officer  on  the  Patrol  of  the  Cypress 
Hills.”  That  was  all  the  Commandant  knew. 

A  soldier-policeman’s  life  on  the  frontier  is  rough, 
solitary,  and  severe.  Active  duty  and  responsibility 
are  all  that  makes  it  endurable.  To  few  is  it  fasci¬ 
nating.  A  free  and  thoughtful  nature  would,  however, 
find  much  in  it,  in  spite  of  great  hardships,  to  give 
interest  and  even  pleasure.  The  sense  of  breadth 
and  vastness,  and  the  inspiration  of  pure  air  could 
be  a  very  gospel  of  strength,  beauty  and  courage,  to 
such  an  one — for  a  time.  But  was  Sergeant  Fones 
such  an  one  ?  The  Commandant’s  scornful  reply  to 
a  question  of  the  kind  would  have  been  :  He  is 
the  best  soldier  on  the  Patrol.” 

And  so  with  hard  gallops  here  and  there  after  the 
refugees  of  crime  or  misfortune,  or  both,  who  fled 


6 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


before  them  like  deer  among  the  passes  of  the  hills, 
and,  like  deer  at  bay,  often  fought  like  demons  to 
the  death  ;  with  border  watchings,  and  protection 
and  care  and  vigilance  of  the  Indians  ;  with  hurried 
marches  at  sunrise,  the  thermometer  at  fifty  degrees 
below  zero  often  in  winter,  and  open  camps  beneath 
the  stars,  and  no  camp  at  all,  as  often  as  not,  winter 
and  summer  ;  with  rough  barrack  fun  and  parade 
and  drill  and  guard  of  prisoners  ;  and  with  chances 
now  and  then  to  pay  homage  to  a  woman’s  face, — 
the  Mounted  Force  grew  full  of  the  Spirit  of  the 
West  and  became  brown,  valiant,  and  hardy,  with 
wind  and  weather.  Perhaps  some  of  them  longed 
to  touch,  oftener  than  they  did,  the  hands  of  children, 
and  to  consider  more  the  faces  of  women, — for 
hearts  are  hearts  even  under  a  belted  coat  of  red  on 
the  Fiftieth  Parallel, — but  men  of  nerve  do  not 
blazon  their  feelings. 

No  one  would  have  accused  Sergeant  Fones  of 
having  a  heart.  Men  of  keen  discernment  would 
have  seen  in  him  the  little  Bismarck  of  the  Mounted 
Police.  His  name  carried  farther  on  the  Cypress 
Hills  Patrol  than  any  other  ;  and  yet  his  officers 
could  never  say  that  he  exceeded  his  duty  or  enlarged 
upon  the  orders  he  received.  He  had  no  sympathy 
with  crime.  Others  of  the  force  might  wink  at  it ; 
but  his  mind  appeared  to  sit  severely  upright  upon 
the  cold  platform  of  Penalty,  in  beholding  breaches 
of  the  Statutes.  He  would  not  have  rained  upon 
the  unjust  as  the  just  if  he  had  had  the  directing  of 
the  heavens.  As  Private  Gellatly  put  it :  “  Sergeant 
Fones  has  the  fear  o’  God  in  his  heart,  and  the  law 
of  the  land  across  his  saddle,  and  the  newest  breech- 


THE  PA  TROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS.  7 

loading  at  that !  ”  He  was  part  of  the  great  machine 
of  Order,  the  servant  of  Justice,  the  sentinel  in  the 
vestibule  of  Martial  Law.  His  interpretation  of  duty 
worked  upward  as  downward.  Officers  and  privates 
were  acted  on  by  the  force  known  as  Sergeant 
Fones.  Some  people,  like  Old  Brown  Windsor, 
spoke  hardly  and  openly  of  this  force.  There  were 
three  people  who  never  did— Pretty  Pierre,  Young 
Aleck,  and  Mab  Humphrey.  Pierre  hated  him ; 
Young  Aleck  admired  in  him  a  quality  lying  dormant 
in  himself— decision  ;  Mab  Humphrey  spoke  un¬ 
kindly  of  no  one.  Besides — but  no ! 

What  was  Sergeant  Fones’s  country  ?  No  one 
knew.  Where  had  he  come  from  ?  No  one  asked 
him  more  than  once.  He  could  talk  French  with 
Pierre, — a  kind  of  French  that  sometimes  made  the 
undertone  of  red  in  the  Frenchman  s  cheeks  darker. 
He  had  been  heard  to  speak  German  to  a  German 
prisoner,  and  once  when  a  gang  of  Italians  were 
making  trouble  on  a  line  of  railway  under  construc¬ 
tion,  he  arrested  the  leader,  and,  in  a  few  swift,  sharp 
words  in  the  language  of  the  rioters,  settled  the  busi¬ 
ness.  He  had  no  accent  that  betrayed  his  nation¬ 
ality.  .  . 

He  had  been  recommended  for  a  commission. 
The  officer  in  command  had  hinted  that  the  sergeant 
might  get  a  Christmas  present.  The  officer  had 
furWr  said ;  “  And  if  it  was  something  that  both 
you  and  the  patrol  would  be  the  better  for,  you 
couldn’t  object,  sergeant.”  But  the  sergeant  only 
saluted,  looking  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  the  officer. 
That  was  his  reply. 

Private  Gellatly,  standing  without,  heard  Sergeant 


8 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


Fones  say,  as  he  passed  into  the  open  air,  and  slowly 
bared  his  forehead  to  the  winter  sun  : 

“  Exactly.” 

And  Private  Gellatly  cried  with  revolt  in  his  voice  : 
“  Divils  me  own,  the  word  that  a’t  to  have  been  full 
o’  joy  was  like  the  clip  of  a  rifle  breech.” 

Justice  in  a  new  country  is  administered  with 
promptitude  and  vigor,  or  else  not  administered  at 
all.  Where  an  officer  of  the  Mounted  Police- 
Soldiery  has  all  the  powers  of  a  magistrate,  the 
law’s  delay  and  the  insolence  of  office  has  little  space 
in  which  to  work.  One  of  the  commonest  slips  of 
virtue  in  the  Canadian  West  was  selling  whisky 
contrary  to  the  law  of  prohibition  which  prevailed. 
Whisky  runners  were  land  smugglers.  Old  Brown 
Windsor  had,  somehow,  got  the  reputation  of  being 
connected  with  the  whisky  runners ;  not  a  very  re¬ 
spectable  business,  and  thought  to  be  dangerous. 
Whisky  runners  were  inclined  to  resent  intrusion 
on  their  privacy,  with  a  touch  of  that  biting  inhospi¬ 
tableness  which  a  moonlighter  of  Kentucky  uses 
toward  an  inquisitive,  unsympathetic  marshal.  On 
the  Cypress  Hills  Patrol,  however,  the  erring  serv¬ 
ants  of  Bacchus  were  having  a  hard  time  of  it. 
Vigilance  never  slept  there  in  the  days  of  which 
these  lines  bear  record.  Old  Brown  Windsor  had, 
in  words,  freely  espoused  the  cause  of  the  sinful. 
To  the  careless  spectator  it  seemed  a  charitable 
siding  with  the  suffering ;  a  proof  that  the  old  man’s 
heart  was  not  so  cold  as  his  hands.  Sergeant  Fones 
thought  differently,  and  his  mission  had  just  been  to 
warn  the  storekeeper  that  there  was  menacing  evi¬ 
dence  gathering  against  him,  and  that  his  friendship 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS.  9 


with  Golden  Feather,  the  Indian  Chief,  had  better 
cease  at  once.  Sergeant  Fones  had  a  way  of  putting 
things.  Old  Brown  Windsor  endeavored  for  a 
moment  to  be  sarcastic.  This  was  the  brief  dialogue 
in  the  domain  of  sarcasm  : 

“I  s’pose  you  just  lit  round  in  a  friendly  sort  of 
way,  hopin’  that  I’d  kenoodle  with  you  later.” 

•“  Exactly.” 

There  was  an  unpleasant  click  to  the  word.  The 
old  man’s  hands  got  colder.  He  had  nothing  more 
to  say. 

Before  leaving,  the  sergeant  said  something  quietly 
and  quickly  to  Young  Aleck.  Pierre  observed,  but 
could  not  hear.  Young  Aleck  was  uneasy;  Pierre 
was  perplexed.  The  sergeant  turned  at  the  door, 
and  said  in  French  :  “  What  are  your  chances  for  a 
Merry  Christmas  at  Pardon’s  Drive,  Pretty  Pierre  ?  ” 
Pierre  said  nothing.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  as  the  door  closed,  muttered  :  II  est  le  liable. " 
And  he  meant  it.  What  should  Sergeant  Fones 
know  of  that  intended  meeting  at  Pardon’s  Drive  on 
Christmas  Day  ?  And  if  he  knew,  what  then  ?  It 
was  not  against  the  law  to  play  euchre.  Still  it  per¬ 
plexed  Pierre.  Before  the  Windsors,  father  and  son, 
however,  he  was,  as  we  have  seen,  playfully  cool. 

After  quitting  Old  Brown  Windsor’s  store.  Sergeant 
Fones  urged  his  stout  broncho  to  a  quicker  pace  than 
usual.  The  broncho  was,  like  himself,  wasteful  of 
neither  action  nor  affection.  The  sergeant  had 
caught  him  wild  and  independent,  had  brought  him 
in,  broken  him,  and  taught  him  obedience.  They 
understood  each  other;  perhaps  they  loved  each 
other.  But  about  that  even  Private  Gellatly  had 


lO 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


views  in  common  with  the  general  sentiment  as  to 
the  character  of  Sergeant  Fones.  The  private  re¬ 
marked  once  on  this  point :  “  Sarpints  alive  !  the 
heels  of  the  one  and  the  law  of  the  other  is  the  love 
of  them.  They’ll  weather  together  like  the  Divil 
and  Death.” 

The  sergeant  was  brooding ;  that  was  not  like  him. 
He  was  hesitating ;  that  was  less  like  him.  .  He 
turned  his  broncho  round  as  if  to  cross  the  Big  Divide 
and  to  go  back  to  Windsor’s  store  ;  but  he  changed 
his  mind  again,  and  rode  on  toward  David  Hum¬ 
phrey’s  ranch.  He  sat  as  if  he  had  been  born  in  the 
saddle.  His  was  a  face  for  the  artist,  strong  and 
clear,  and  having  a  dominant  expression  of  force. 
The  eyes  were  deep-set  and  watchful.  A  kind  of 
disdain  might  be  traced  in  the  curve  of  the  short 
upper  lip,  to  which  the  mustache  was  clipped  close 
— a  good  fit,  like  his  coat.  TItte  disdain  was  more 
marked  this  morning. 

The  first  part  of  hlj  ride  had  been  seen  by  Young 
Aleck,  the  second  part  by  Mab  Humphrey.  Her 
first  thought  on  seeing  him  was  one  of  apprehension 
for  Young  Aleck  and  those  of  Young  Aleck’s  name. 
She  knew  that  people  spoke  of  her  lover  as  a  ne’er- 
do-weel  ;  and  that  they  associated  his  name  freely 
with  that  of  Pretty  Pierre  and  his  gang.  She  had  a 
dread  of  Pierre,  and,  only  the  night  before,  she  had 
determined  to  make  one  last  great  effort  to  save 
Alleck,  and  if  he  would  not  be  saved — strange  that, 
'shmking  it  all  over  again,  as  she  watched  the  figure 
on  horseback  coming  nearer,  her  mind  should  swerve 
‘io  what  she  had  heard  of  Sergeant  Fones’s  expected 
promotion.  Then  she  fell  to  wondering  if  any  one 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS,  ii 

had  ever  given  him  a  real  Christmas  present ;  if  he 
had  any  friends  at  all ;  if  life  meant  anything  more 
to  him  than  carrying  the  law  of  the  land  across  his 
saddle.  Again  he  suddenly  came  to  her  in  a  new 
thought,  free  from  apprehension,  and  as  the  champion 
of  her  cause  to  defeat  the  half-breed  and  his  gang, 
and  save  Aleck  from  present  danger  or  future  perils. 

She  was  such  a  woman  as  prairies  nurture;  in 
spirit  broad  and  thoughtful  and  full  of  energy  ;  not 
so  deep  as  the  mountain  woman,  not  so  imaginative, 
but  with  more  persistency,  more  daring.  Youth  to 
her  was  a  warmth,  a  glory.  She  hated  excess  and 
lawlessness,  but  she  could  understand  it.  She  felt 
sometimes  as  if  she  must  go  far  away  into  the  un¬ 
peopled  spaces,  and  shriek  out  her  soul  to  the  stars 
from  the  fullness  of  too  much  life.  She  supposed 
men  had  feelings  of  that  kind  too,  but  that  they  fell 
to  playing  cards  and  drinking  instead  of  crying  to 
the  stars.  Still,  she  preferred  her  way. 

Once  Sergeant  Fones,  on  leaving  the  house,  said 
grimly  after  his  fashion  :  “  Not  Mab  but  Ariadne— 

excuse  a  soldier’s  bluntness . Good-bye !  ”  and 

with  a  brusque  salute  he  had  ridden  away.  What  he 
meant  she  did  not  know  and  could  not  ask.  The 
thought  instantly  came  to  her  mind  :  Not  Sergeant 
Fones  •  but— who  ?  She  wondered  if  Ariadne  was 
born  on  the  prairie.  What  knew  she  of  the  girl  who 
helped  Theseus,  her  lover,  to  slay  the  Minotaur? 
What  guessed  she  of  the  Slopes  of  Naxos?  How 
old  was  Ariadne?  Twenty?— For  that  was  Mab’s 
age  Was  Ariadne  beautiful  ? — She  ran  her  fingers 
loosely  through  her  short  brown  hair,  waving  softly 
about  her  Greek-shaped  head,  and  reasoned  that 


N 


12  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

Ariadne  must  have  been  presentable  or  Sergeant 
Fones  would  not  have  made  the  comparison.  She 
hoped  Ariadne  could  ride  well,  for  she  could. 

But  how  white  the  world  looked  this  morning ! 
and  how  proud  and  brilliant  the  sky  !  Nothing  in 
the  plane  of  vision  but  waves  of  snow  stretching  to 
the  Cypress  Hills  ;  far  to  the  left  a  solitary  house, 
with  its  tin  roof  flashing  back  the  sun,  and  to  the 
right  the  Big  Divide.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  winter, 
not  one  in  which  bare  ground  and  sharp  winds  make 
life  outdoors  inhospitable..  Snow  is  hospitable — ^ 
clean,  impacted  snow  ;  restful  and  silent.  But  there 
is  one  spot  in  the  area  of  white,  on  which  Mab’s 
eyes  are  fixed  now,  with  something  different  in  them 
from  what  had  been  there.  Again  it  was  a  memory 
with  which  Sergeant  Fones  was  associated.  One 
day  in  the  summer  just  past  she  had  watched  him 
and  his  company  put  away  to  rest  under  the  cool 
sod,  where  many  another  lay  in  silent  company,  a 
prairie  wanderer,  some  outcast  from  a  better  life 
gone  by.  Afterwards,  in  her  home,  she  saw  the 
sergeant  stand  at  the  window,  looking  out  toward 
the  spot  where  the  waves  in  the  sea  of  grass  were 
more  regular  and  greener  than  elsewhere,  and  were 
surmounted  by  a  high  cross.  She  said  to  him — for 
she  of  all  was  never  shy  of  his  stern  ways  : 

“  Why -is  the  grass  always  greenest  there,  Sergeant 
Fones  ?  ” 

He  knew  what  she  meant,  and  slowly  said  :  “  It  is 
the  Barracks  of  the  Free.” 

She  had  no  views  of  life  save  those  of  duty  and 
work  and  natural  joy  and  loving  a  ne’er-do-weel,  and 
she  said  :  “  I  do  not  understand  that.” 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS.  13 

And  the  sergeant  replied  :  “  Free  among  the  Dead 
like  unto  them  that  are  wounded  a7id  lie  in  the  grave, 
who  are  out  of  remembrance." 

But  Mab  said  again ;  “  I  do  not  understand  that 

either.” 

The  sergeant  did  not  at  once  reply.  He  stepped 
to  the  door  and  gave  a  short  command  to  some  one 
without,  and  in  a  moment  his  company  was  mounted 
in  line  ;  handsome,  dashing  fellows  ;  one  the  son  of 
an  English  nobleman,  one  the  brother  of  an  eminent 
Canadian  politician,  one  related  to  a  celebrated 
English  dramatist.  He  ran  his  eye  along  the  line, 
then  turned  to  Mab,  raised  his  cap  with  machine-like 
precision,  and  said ;  “  No,  I  suppose  you  do  not 
understand  that.  Keep  Aleck  Windsor  from  Pretty 
Pierre  and  his  gang.  Good-bye.” 

Then  he  mounted  and  rode  away.  Every  other 
man  in  the  company  looked  back  to  where  the  girl 
stood  in  the  doorway  ;  he  did  not.  Private  Gellatly 
said,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  as  she  was  lost  to 
view  ;  “  Devils  bestir  me,  what  a  widdy  she’ll  make !  ’  ’ 
It  was  understood  that  Aleck  Windsor  and  Mab 
Humphrey  were  to  be  married  on  the  coming  New 
Year’s  Day.  What  connection  was  there  between 
the  words  of  Sergeant  Fones  and  those  of  Private 

Gellatly?  None,  perhaps. 

Mab  thinks  upon  that  day  as  she  looks  out,  this 
December  morning,  and  sees  Sergeant  Fones  dis¬ 
mounting  at  the  door.  David  Humphrey,  who  is  out¬ 
side,  offers  to  put  up  the  sergeant’s  horse  ;  but  he 
says  :  “  No,  if  you’ll  hold  him  just  a  moment,  Mr. 

Humphrey,  I’ll  ask  for  a  drink  of  something  warm, 
and  move  on.  Miss  Mab  is  inside,  I  suppose  ?  ” 


14 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  She’ll  give  you  a  drink  of  the  l>esf  to  be  had  on 
your  patrol,  sergeant,”  was  the  laughing  reply. 

“  Thanks  for  that,  but  tea  or  coffee  is  good  enough 
for  me,”  said  the  sergeant.  Entering,  the  coffee  was 
soon  in  the  hand  of  the  hardy  soldier.  Once  he 
paused  in  his  drinking  and  scanned  Mab’s  face 
closely.  Most  people  would  have  said  the  sergeant 
had  an  affair  of  the  law  in  hand,  and  was  searching 
the  face  of  a  criminal ;  but  most  people  are  not  good 
at  interpretation.  Mab  was  speaking  to  the  chore- 
girl  at  the  same  time  and  did  not  see  the  look.  If 
she  could  have  defined  her  thoughts  when  she,  in 
turn,  glanced  into  the  sergeant’s  face,  a  moment 
afterwards,  she  would  have  said  :  “  Austerity  fills 
this  man.  Isolation  marks  him  for  its  own.”  In  the 
eyes  were  only  purpose,  decision,  and  command. 
Was  that  the  look  that  had  been  fixed  upon  hef 
face  a  moment  ago  ?  It  must  have  been.  His  feat¬ 
ures  had  not  changed  a  breath.  Mab  began  their 
talk. 

“  They  say  you  are  to  get  a  Christmas  present  of 
promotion.  Sergeant  Fones.” 

“  I  have  not  seen  it  gazetted,”  he  answered,  enig¬ 
matically. 

‘‘  You  and  your  friends  will  be  glad  of  it.” 

“  I  like  the  service.” 

“  You  will  have  more  freedom  with  a  commission.” 

He  made  no  reply,  but  rose  and  walked  to  the 
window,  and  looked  out  across  the  snow,  drawing  on 
his  gauntlets  as  he  did  so. 

She  saw  that  he  was  looking  where  the  grass  in 
summer  was  the  greenest  ! 

He  turned  and  said  : 


TFIE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS.  15 


“  I  am  going  to  barracks  now.  I  suppose  Young 
Aleck  will  be  in  quarters  here  on  Christmas  Day, 
Miss  Mab  ?  ” 

“  I  think  so,”  and  she  blushed. 

“  Did  he  say  he  would  be  here  ?  ” 

“  Yes.” 

“  Exactly.” 

He  looked  toward  the  coffee.  Then  : 

“  Thank  you.  .  .  .  Good-bye.” 

“  Sergeant  ?  ” 

“  Miss  Mab  !  ” 

“  Will  you  not  come  to  us  on  Christmas  Day  ?  ” 

His  eyelids  closed  swiftly  and  opened  again. 

“  I  shall  be  on  duty.” 

“  And  promoted  ?  ” 

“  Perhaps.” 

“  And  merry  and  happy  ?  ” — she  smiled  to  herself 
to  think  of  Sergeant  Fones  being  merry  and  happy. 

“  Exactly.” 

The  word  suited  him. 

He  paused  a  moment  with  his  fingers  on  the  latch, 
and  turned  round  as  if  to  speak  ;  pulled  off  his 
gauntlet,  and  then  as  quickly  put  it  on  again.  Had 
he  meant  to  offer  his  hand  in  good-bye  ?  He  had 
never  been  seen  to  take  the  hand  of  any  one  except 
with  the  might  of  the  law  visible  in  steel. 

He  opened  the  door  with  the  right  hand,  but 
turned  round  as  he  stepped  out,  so  that  the  left  held 
it  while  he  faced  the  warmth  of  the  room  and  the 
face  of  the  girl. 

The  door  closed. 

Mounted,  and  having  said  good-bye  to  Mr.  Hum¬ 
phrey,  he  turned  towards  the  house,  raised  his  cap 


1 6  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

with  soldierly  brusqueness,  and  rode  away  in  the , 
direction  of  the  barracks. 

The  girl  did  not  watch  him.  She  was  thinking  of 
Young  Aleck,  and  of  Christmas  Day,  now  near.  The 
sergeant  did  not  look  back. 

Meantime  the  party  at  Windsor’s  store  was  broken 
up.  Pretty  Pierre  and  Young  Aleck  had  talked  to¬ 
gether,  and  the  old  man  had  heard  his  son  say  : 

“  Remember,  Pierre,  it  is  for  the  last  time.” 

Then  they  talked  after  this  fashion  : 

“  Ah,  I  know,  mon  ami  ;  for  the  last  time  !  Eh, 
bien  !  You  will  spend  Christmas  Day  with  us  too — 
No  ?  You  surely  will  not  leave  us  on  the  day  of 
good  fortune  ?  Where  better  can  you  take  your 
pleasure— for  the  last  time  ?  One  day  is  not  enough 
for  farewell.  Two,  three ;  that  is  the  magic  number. 
You  will,  eh  ?— no  ?  Well,  well,  you  will  come  to¬ 
morrow — and — eh,  mou  ami,  where  do  you  go  the 
next  day  ?  Oh,  pardon,  I  forgot,  you  spend  the 
Christmas  Day — I  know.  And  the  day  of  the  New 
Year  ?  Ah,  Young  Aleck,  that  is  what  they  say — 
the  devil  for  the  devil’s  luck.  So  !  ” 

“  Stop  that,  Pierre.”  There  was  fierceness  in  the 
tone.  “  I  spend  the  Christmas  Day  where  you  don’t, 
and  as  I  like,  and  the  rest  doesn’t  concern  you,  I 
drink  with  you,  I  play  with  you — bien  !  As  you  say 
yourself,  bien  !  isn’t  that  enough  ?  ” 

Pardon  !  We  will  not  quarrel.  No  ;  we  spend 
not  the  Christmas  Day  after  the  same  fashion,  quite  ; 
then,  to-morrow  at  Pardon’s  Drive  !  Adieu  ! 

Pretty  Pierre  went  out  of  one  door,  a  malediction 
between  his  white  teeth,  and  Aleck  went  out  of 
another  door  with  a  malediction  upon  his  gloomy 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS, 


lips.  But  both  maledictions  were  levelled  at  the  same 
person.  Poor  Aleck  ! 

“  Poor  Aleck  !  ”  That  is  the  way  we  sometimes 
think  of  a  good  nature  gone  awry ;  one  that  has 
learned  to  say  cruel  maledictions  to  itself,  and  against 
which  demons  hurl  their  maledictions  too.  Alas,  for 
the  ne’er-do-weel ! 

That  night  a  stalwart  figure  passed  from  David 
Humphrey’s  door,  carrying  with  him  the  warm  at¬ 
mosphere  of  a  good  woman’s  love.  The  chilly  outer 
air  of  the  world  seemed  not  to  touch  him,  Love’s 
curtains  were  drawn  so  close.  Had  one  stood  within 
“  the  Hunter’s  Room,”  as  it  was  called,  a  little  while 
before,  one  would  have  seen  a  man’s  head  bowed 
before  a  woman,  and  her  hand  smoothing  back  the 
hair  from  the  handsome  brow  where  dissipation  had 
drawn  some  deep  lines.  Presently  the  hand  raised 
the  head  until  the  eyes  of  the  woman  looked  full 
into  the  eyes  of  the  man. 

“  You  will  not  go  to  Pardon’s  Drive  again,  will 
you,  Aleck  ?  ” 

“  Never  again  after  Christmas  Day,  Mab.  But  I 
must  go  to-morrow.  I  have  given  my  word.” 

“  I  know.  To  meet  Pretty  Pierre  and  all  the  rest, 
and  for  what  ?  Oh,  Aleck,  isn’t  the  suspicion  about 
your  father  enough,  but  you  must  put  this  on  me  as 
well?” 

“  My  father  must  suffer  for  his  wrong-doing  if  he 
does  wrong,  and  I  for  mine.” 

There  was  a  moment’s  silence.  He  bowed  his 
head  again. 

“  And  I  have  done  wrong  to  us  both.  Forgive 
me,  Mab.” 


2 


l8  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

She  leaned  over  and  fondled  his  hair.  “I  for* 
give  you,  Aleck.” 

A  thousand  new  thoughts  were  thrilling  through 
him.  Yet  this  man  had  given  his  word  to  do  that 
for  which  he  must  ask  forgiveness  of  the  woman  he 
loved.  But  to  Pretty  Pierre,  forgiven  or  unforgiven, 
he  would  keep  his  word.  She  understood  it  better 
than  most  of  those  who  read  this  brief  record  can. 
Every  sphere  has  its  code  of  honor  and  duty  pecul¬ 
iar  to  itself. 

“You  will  come  to  me  on  Christmas  morning, 
Aleck  ?  ” 

“  I  will  come  on  Christmas  morning.” 

“  And  no  more  after  that  of  Pretty  Pierre  ?  ” 

“  And  no  more  of  Pretty  Pierre.” 

She  trusted  him ;  but  neither  could  reckon  with 
unknown  forces. 

Sergeant  Fones,  sitting  in  the  barracks  in  talk 
with  Private  Gellatly,  said  at  that  moment  in  a  swift 
silence, — “  Exactly.” 

Pretty  Pierre,  at  Pardon’s  Drive,  drinking  a 
glass  of  brandy  at  that  moment,  said  to  the 
ceiling  : 

“  No  more  of  Pretty  Pierre  after  to-morrow  night, 
monsieur  !  Bien  !  If  it  is  for  the  last  time,  then  it  is 
for  the  last  time.  So  ....  so  !  ” 

He  smiled.  His  teeth  were  amazingly  white. 

The  stalwart  figure  strode  on  under  the  stars,  the 
white  night  a  lens  for  visions  of  days  of  rejoicing  to 
come.  All  evil  was  far  from  him.  The  dolorous 
tide  rolled  back  in  this  hour  from  his  life,  and  he  rev¬ 
eled  in  the  light  of  a  new  day. 

“  When  I’ve  played  my  last  card  to-morrow  night, 


I 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS.  19 

with  Pretty  Pierre,  Pll  begin  the  world  again,”  he 
whispered. 

And  Sergeant  Fones  in  the  barracks  said  just 
then,  in  response  to  a  further  remark  of  Private 
Gellatly, — “  Exactly.” 

Young  Aleck  is  singing  now : 

“  Out  from  your  vineland  come 
Into  the  prairies  wild  ; 

Here  will  we  make  our  home, — 

Father,  mother,  and  child  ; 

Come,  my  love,  to  our  home, — 

Father,  mother,  and  child. 

Father,  mother,  and - ” 

He  fell  to  thinking  again — “  and  child — and 
child,” — it  was  in  his  ears  and  in  his  heart. 

But  Pretty  Pierre  was  singing  softly  to  himself  in 
the  room  at  Pardon’s  Drive  : 

"  Three  good  friends  with  the  wine  at  night — 

Vive  la  compagnie  ! 

Two  good  friends  when  the  sun  grows  bright— 

Vive  la  compagnie  ! 

Vive  la,  vive  la,  vive  I’amour  ! 

Vive  la,  vive  la,  vive  I’amour  ! 

Three  good  friends,  tivo  good  friends — 

Vive  la  compagnie  I  ” 

What  did  it  mean  ? 

Private  Gellatly  was  cousin  to  Idaho  Jack,  and 
Idaho  Jack  disliked  Pretty  Pierre,  though  he  had 
been  one  of  the  gang.  The  cousins  had  seen  each 
other  lately,  and  Private  Gellatly  had  had  a  talk 
with  the  man  who  was  ha’sh.  It  may  be  that  others 
besides  Pierre  had  an  idea,  of  what  it  meant. 


20 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


In  the  house  at  Pardon’s  Drive  the  next  night  sat 
eight  men,  of  whom  three  were  Pretty  Pierre,  Young 
Aleck,  and  Idaho  Jack.  Young  Aleck’s  face  was 
flushed  with  bad  liquor  and  the  worse  excitement  of 
play.  This  was  one  of  the  unreckoned  forces.  Was 
this  the  man  that  sang  the  tender  song  under  the 
stars  last  night?  Pretty  Pierre’s  face  was  less 
pretty  than  usual ;  the  cheeks  were  pallid,  the  eyes 
were  hard  and  cold.  Once  he  looked  at  his  partner 
as  if  to  say,  “  Not  yet.”  Idaho  Jack  saw  the  look  ; 
he  glanced  at  his  watch  ;  it  was  eleven  o’clock.  At 
that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Sergeant  Fones 
entered.  All  started  to  their  feet,  most  with  curses 
on  their  lips ;  but  Sergeant  Fones  never  seemed  to 
hear  anything  that  could  make  a  feature  of  his  face 
alter.  Pierre’s  hand  was  on  his  hip,  as  if  feeling 
for  something.  Sergeant  Fones  saw  that;  but  he 
walked  to  where  Aleck  stood,  with  his  unplayed 
cards  still  in  his  hand,  and,  laying  a  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  said,  “  Come  with  me.” 

“  Why  should  I  go  with  you  ?  ” — this  with  a 
drunken  man’s  bravado. 

“  You  are  my  prisoner.” 

Pierre  stepped  forward.  “  What  is  his  crime  ?  ” 
he  exclaimed. 

How  does  that  concern  you.  Pretty  Pierre  ?  ” 

“  He  is  my  friend.” 

“  Is  he  your  friend,  Aleck  ?  ” 

What  was  there  in  the  eyes  of  Sergeant  Fones  that 
forced  the  reply, — “  To-night,  yes  ;  to-morrow,  no  ?  ” 
“  Exactly.  It  is  near  to-morrow  ;  come.” 

Aleck  was  led  towards  the  door.  Once  more 
Pierre’s  hand  went  to  his  hip  ;  but  he  was  looking  at 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS.  21 


the  prisoner,  not  at  the  sergeant.  The  sergeant 
saw,  and  his  fingers  were  at  his  belt.  He  opened 
the  door.  Aleck  passed  out.  He  followed.  Two 
horses  were  tied  to  a  post.  With  difficulty  Aleck 
was  mounted.  Once  on  the  way  his  brain  began 
slowly  to  clear,  but  he  grew  painfully  cold.  It  was 
a  bitter  night.  How  bitter  it  might  have  been  for 
the  ne’er-do-weel  let  the  words  of  Idaho  Jack,  spoken 
in  a  long  hour’s  talk  next  day  with  Old  Brown  Wind¬ 
sor,  show.  “  Pretty  Pierre,  after  the  two  were  gone, 
said,  with  a  shiver  of  curses, — ‘  Another  hour  and  it 
would  have  been  done,  and  no  one  to  blame.  He  was 
ready  for  trouble.  His  money  was  nearly  finished. 
A  little  quarrel  easily  made,  the  door  would  open,  and 
he  would  pass  out.  His  horse  would  be  gone,  he 
could  not  come  back  ;  he  would  walk.  The  air  is 
cold,  quite,  quite  cold ;  and  the  snow  is  a  soft  bed. 
He  would  sleep  well  and  sound,  having  seen  Pretty 
Pierre  for  the  last  time.  And  now  !’”  The  rest  was 
French  and  furtive. 

From  that  hour  Idaho  Jack  and  Pretty  Pierre 
parted  company. 

Riding  from  Pardon’s  Drive,  Young  Aleck  noticed 
at  last  that  they  were  not  going  toward  the  barracks. 

He  said  :  “  Why  do  you  arrest  me  ?  ” 

The  sergeant  replied:  “You  will  know  that  soon 
enough.  You  are  now  going  to  your  own  home. 
To-morrow  you  will  keep  your  word  and  go  to  David 
Humphrey’s  place ;  the  next  day  I  will  come  for 
you.  Which  do  you  choose  :  to  ride  with  me  to-night 
to  the  barracks  and  know  why  you  are  arrested,  or 
go,  unknowing,  as  I  bid  you,  and  keep  your  word 
with  the  girl  ?  ” 


22 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


Through  Aleck’s  fevered  brain  there  ran  the  words 
of  the  song  he  sang  before  : 

“  Out  from  your  vineland  come 
Into  the  prairies  wild ; 

Here  will  we  make  our  home,— 

Father,  mother,  and  child.” 

He  could  have  but  one  answer. 

At  the  door  of  his  home  the  sergeant  left  him  with 
the  words  :  “  Remember  you  are  on  parole.” 

Aleck  noticed,  as  the  sergeant  rode  away,  that 
the  face  of  the  sky  had  changed,  and  slight  gusts  of 
wind  had  come  up.  At  any  other  time  his  mind  would 
have  dwelt  upon  the  fact.  It  did  not  do  so  now. 

Christmas  Day  came.  People  said  that  the  fiercest 
night,  since  the  blizzard  day  of  1863,  had  been 
passed.  But  the  morning  was  clear  and  beautiful. 
The  sun  came  up  like  a  great  flower  expanding. 
First  the  yellow,  then  the  purple,  then  the  red,  and 
then  a  mighty  shield  of  roses.  The  world  was  a 
blanket  of  drift,  and  down  and  glistening  silver. 

Mab  Humphrey  greeted  her  lover  with  such  a 
smile  as  only  springs  to  a  thankful  woman’s  lips. 
He  had  given  his  word  and  had  kept  it ;  and  the 
path  of  the  future  seemed  surer. 

He  was  a  prisoner  on  parole  ;  still  that  did  not 
depress  him.  Plans  for  coming  days  were  talked  of, 
and  the  laughter  of  many  voices  filled  the  house. 
The  ne’er-do-v.'eel  was  clothed  and  in  his  right  mind. 
In  the  Hunter’s  Room  the  noblest  trophy  was  the 
heart  of  a  repentant  prodigal. 

In  the  barracks  that  morning  a  gazetted  notice 
was  posted,  announcing,  with  such  technical  language 


THE  PATROL  OF  THE  CYPRESS  HILLS.  23 

as  is  the  custom,  that  Sergeant  Fones  was  promoted 
to  be  a  lieutenant  in  the  Mounted  Police  Force  of 
the  North-West  Territory.  When  the  officer  in 
command  sent  for  him  he  could  not  be  found.  But 
he  was  found  that  morning ;  and  when  Private 
Gellatly,  with  a  warm  hand,  touching  the  glove  of 
“  iron  and  ice  ” — that,  indeed,  now,  said  :  “  Sergeant 
Fones,  you  are  promoted,  God  help  you  !  ”  he  gave 
no  sign.  Motionless,  stern,  erect,  he  sat  there  upon 
his  horse,  beside  a  stunted  larch  tree.  The  broncho 
seemed  to  understand,  for  he  did  not  stir,  and  had 
not  done  so  for  hours ; — they  could  tell  that.  The 
bridle  rein  was  still  in  the  frigid  fingers,  and  a  smile 
was  upon  the  face. 

A  smile  upon  the  face  of  Sergeant  Fones. 

Perhaps  he  smiled  because  he  was  going  to  the 
Barracks  of  the  Free. 

“  Free  among  the  Dead  like  iinto  them  that  are 
wounded  and  lie  in  the  grave,  that  are  out  of  re7nem- 
brancel' 

In  the  wild  night  he  had  lost  his  way,  though  but 
a  few  miles  from  the  barracks. 

He  had  done  his  duty  rigidly  in  that  sphere  of  life 
where  he  had  lived  so  much  alone  among  his  many 
comrades.  Had  he  exceeded  his  duty  once  in 
arresting  Young  Aleck.? 

When,  the  next  day.  Sergeant  Fones  lay  in  the 
barracks,  over  him  the  flag  for  which  he  had  sworn 
to  do  honest  service,  and  his  promotion  papers  in  his 
quiet  hand,  the  two  who  loved  each  other  stood 
beside  him  for  many  a  throbbing  minute.  And  one 
said  to  herself,  silently  :  “  I  felt  sometimes  ” — but 
no  more  words  did  she  say  even  to  herself. 


24 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


Old  Aleck  came  in,  and  walked  to  where  the 
sergeant  slept,  wrapped  close  in  that  white  frosted 
coverlet  which  man  wears  but  once.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  silent,  his  fingers  numbly  clasped. 

Private  Gellatly  spoke  softly  :  “  Angels  betide 
me,  it’s  little  we  knew  the  great  of  him  till  he  wint 
away ;  the  pride,  and  the  law, — and  the  love  of 
him,” 

In  the  tragedy  that  faced  them  this  Christmas 
morning  one  at  least  had  seen  “  the  love  of  him.” 
Perhaps  the  broncho  had  known  it  before. 

Old  Aleck  laid  a  palm  upon  the  hand  he  had 
never  touched  when  it  had  life.  “  He’s — too — • 
ha’sh,”  he  said,  slowly. 

Private  Gellatly  looked  up  wonderingly. 

But  the  old  man’s  eyes  were  wet. 


God’s  Garrison. 


Twenty  years  ago  there  was  trouble  at  Fort  o’ 
God.  “  Out  of  this  place  we  get  betwixt  the  suns,” 
said  Gyng  the  Factor.  “No  help  that  falls  abaft 
to-morrow  could  save  us.  Food  dwindles,  and  am¬ 
munition’s  nearly  gone,  and  they’ll  have  the  cold  steel 
in  our  scalp-locks  if  we  stay.  We’ll  creep  along  the 
Devil’s  Causeway,  then  through  the  Red  Horn 
Woods,  and  so  across  the  plains  to  Rupert  House. 
Whip  in  the  dogs,  Baptiste,  and  be  ready  all  of  you 
at  midnight.” 

“  And  Grail  the  Idiot — what  of  him  ?  ”  said  Pretty 
Pierre. 

“  He’ll  have  to  take  his  chance.  If  he  can  travel 
with  us,  so  much  the  better  for  him ;  ”  and  the 
Factor  shrugged  his  shoulders, 

“  If  not,  so  much  the  worse,  eh  ?  ”  replied  Pretty 
Pierre, 

“  Work  the  sum  out  to  suit  yourself.  We’ve  got 
our  necks  to  save,  God  ’ll  have  to  help  the  Idiot  if 
we  can’t,” 

“  You  hear,  Grah  Hamon,  Idiot,”  said  Pierre  an 
hour  afterwards,  “  we’re  going  to  leave  Fort  o’  God 
and  make  for  Rupert  House,  You’ve  a  dragging 
leg,  you’re  gone  in  the  savvey,  you  have  to  balance 
yourself  with  your  hands  as  you  waddle  along,  and 
you  slobber  when  you  talk ;  but  you’ve  got  to  cut 


26 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


away  with  us  quick  across  the  Beaver  Plains,  and 
Christ  ’ll  have  to  help  you  if  we  can’t.  That’s 
what  the  Factor  says,  and  that’s  how  the  case  stands, 
Idiot — Men  ?  ” 

“  Grab  want  pipe — bubble — bubble — wind  blow,” 
muttered  the  daft  one. 

Pretty  Pierre  bent  over  and  said  slowly  :  “  If  you 
stay  here,  Grah,  the  Indian  get  your  scalp  ;  if  you  go, 
the  snow  is  deep  and  the  frost  is  like  a  badger’s 
tooth,  and  you  can’t  be  carried.” 

“  Oh,  oh  ! — my  mother  dead — poor  Annie — my 
God !  Grah  want  pipe — poor  Grah  sleep  in  snow 
— bubble,  bubble — oh,  oh  ! — the  long  wind,  fly 
away.” 

Pretty  Pierre  watched  the  great  head  of  the  Idiot 
as  it  swung  heavily  on  his  shoulders,  and  then  said ; 
“  Mais,  like  that,  so  !  ”  and  turned  away. 

When  the  party  were  about  to  sally  forth  on  their 
perilous  path  to  safety,  Gyng  stood  and  cried 
angrily  :  “  Well,  why  hasn’t  some  one  bundled  up 
that  moth-eaten  Caliban  ?  Curse  it  all,  must  I  do 
everything  myself  ?  ” 

“  But  you  see,”  said  Pierre,  “  the  Caliban  stays 
at  Fort  o’  God.” 

“  You’ve  got  a  Christian  heart  in  you,  so  help  me. 
Heaven  !  ”  replied  the  other.  “  No,  sir,  we  give 
him  a  chance, — and  his  Maker  too  for  that  matter, 
to  show  what  He’s  willing  to  do  for  His  misfits.” 

Pretty  Pierre  rejoined  :  “  Well,  I  have  thought. 
The  game  is  all  against  Grah  if  he  go  ;  but  there  are 
two  who  stay  at  Fort  o’  God.” 

And  that  is  how,  when  the  Factor  and  his  half- 
breeds  and  trappers  stole  away  in  silence  towards 


GOD'S  GARRISON. 


27 


the  Devil’s  Causeway,  Pierre  and  the  Idiot  remained 
behind.  And  that  is  why  the  flag  of  the  H.  B.  C. 
still  flew  above  Fort  o’  God  in  the  New  Year’s 
sun  just  twenty  years  ago  to-day. 

The  Hudson’s  Bay  Company  had  never  done  a 
worse  day’s  work  than  when  they  promoted  Gyng  to 
be  chief  factor.  He  loathed  the  heathen,  and  he 
showed  his  loathing.  He  had  a  heart  harder  than 
iron,  a  speech  that  bruised  worse  than  the  hoof  of 
an  angry  moose.  And  when  at  last  he  drove  away 
a  band  of  wandering  Sioux,  foodless,  from  the  stores, 
siege  and  ambush  took  the  place  of  prayer,  and 
a  nasty  portion  fell  to  Fort  o’  God.  For  the 
Indians  found  a  great  cache  of  buffalo  meat,  and, 
having  sent  the  women  and  children  south  with  the 
old  men,  gave  constant  and  biting  assurances  to 
Gyng  that  the  heathen  hath  his  hour,  even  though 
he  be  a  dog  which  is  refused  those  scraps  from  the 
white  man’s  table  that  make  for  life  in  the  hour 
of  need.  Besides  all  else,  there  was  in  the  Fort  the 
thing  which  the  gods  made  last  to  humble  the  pride 
of  men — there  was  rum. 

And  the  morning  after  Gyng  and  his  men  had 
departed,  because  it  was  a  day  when  frost  Avas  master 
of  the  sun,  and  men  grew  wild  for  action,  since  to 
stand  still  was  to  face  indignant  Death,  they,  who 
camped  without,  prepared  to  make  a  sally  upon  the 
wooden  gates.  Pierre  saw  their  intent,  and  hid  in 
the  ground  some  pemmican  and  all  the  scanty  rum. 
Then  he  looked  at  his  powder  and  shot,  and  saw 
that  there  was  little  left.  If  he  spent  it  on  the 
besiegers,  how  should  they  fare  for  beast  and  fowl 
in  hungry  days  ?  And  for  his  rifle  he  had  but  a 


28 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


brace  of  bullets.  He  rolled  these  in  his  hand,  look¬ 
ing  upon  them  with  a  grim  smile.  And  the  Idiot, 
seeing,  rose  and  sidled  towards  him,  and  said: 
“  Poor  Grah  want  pipe — bubble — bubble.”  Then  a 
light  of  childish  cunning  came  into  his  eyes,  and  he 
touched  the  bullets  blunderingly,  and  continued : 
“  Plenty,  plenty  b’longs  Grah — give  poor  Grah  pipe 
— plenty,  plenty,  give  you  these.” 

And  Pretty  Pierre  after  a  moment  replied  :  “  So 
that’s  it,  Grah? — you’ve  got  bullets  stowed  away! 
Well,  I  must  have  them.  It’s  a  one-sided  game  in 
which  you  get  the  tricks  ;  but  here’s  the  pipe.  Idiot — 
my  only  pipe  for  your  dribbling  mouth — my  last 
good  comrade.  Now  show  me  the  bullets.  Take 
me  to  them,  daft  one,  quick.” 

A  little  later  the  Idiot  sat  inside  the  store  wrapped 
in  loose  furs,  and  blowing  bubbles  ;  while  Pretty 
Pierre,  with  many  handfuls  of  bullets  by  him,  waited 
for  the  attack. 

“  Eh,”  he  said,  as  he  watched  from  ,a  loophole, 
“  Gyng  and  the  others  have  got  safely  past  the 
Causeway,  and  the  rest  is  possible.  Well,  it  hurts  an 
idiot  as  much  to  die,  perhaps,  as  a  half-breed  or  a 
factor.  It  is  good  to  stay  here.  If  we  fight,  and  go 
out  swift  like  Grab’s  bubbles,  it  is  the  game.  If  we 
starve  and  sleep  as  did  Grab’s  mother,  then  it  also 
is  the  game.  It  is  great  to  have  all  the  chances 
against  and  then  to  win.  We  shall  see.” 

With  a  sharp  relish  in  his  eye  he  watched  the 
enemy  coming  slowly  forward.  Yet  he  talked  almost 
idly  to  himself :  “  I  have  a  thought  of  so  long  ago. 
A  woman — she  was  a  mother,  and  it  was  on  the 
Madawaska  River,  and  she  said  :  ‘  Sometimes  I  think 


GOD'S  GARRISON. 


29 


a  devil  was  your  father;  an  angel  sometimes.  You 
were  begot  in  an  hour  between  a  fighting  and  a  mass ; 
between  blood  and  heaven.  And  when  you  were 
born  you  made  no  cry.  They  said  that  was  a  sign 
of  evil.  You  refused  the  breast,  and  drank  only  of 
the  milk  of  wild  cattle.  In  baptism  you  flung  your 
hand  before  your  face  that  the  water  might  not  touch, 
nor  the  priest’s  Anger  make  a  cross  upon  the  water. 
And  they  said  it  were  better  if  you  had  been  born 
an  idiot  than  with  an  evil  spirit ;  and  that  your  hand 
would  be  against  the  loins  that  bore  you.  But,  Pierre, 
ah,  Pierre,  you  love  your  mother,  do  you  not 
And  he  standing  now,  his  eye  closed  with  the  gate- 
chink  in  front  of  Fort  o’  God,  said  quietly  :  “  She 
was  of  the  race  that  hated  these— my  mother  ;  and 
she  died  of  a  wound  they  gave  her  at  the  Tete 
Blanche  Hill.  Well,  for  that  you  die  now.  Yellow 
Arm,  if  this  gun  has  a  bullet  cold  enough.” 

A  bullet  pinged  through  the  sharp  air,  as  the 
Indians  swarmed  towards  the  gate,  and  Yellow  Arm, 
the  chief,  fell.  The  besiegers  paused  ;  and  then,  as 
if  at  the  command  of  the  fallen  man,  they  drew  back, 
bearing  him  to  the  camp,  where  they  sat  down  and 
mourned. 

Pierre  watched  them  for  a  time  ;  and,  seeing  that 
they  made  no  further  move,  retired  into  the  store, 
where  the  idiot  muttered  and  was  happy  after  his 
kind.  “  Grah  got  pipe — blow  away — blow  away  to 
Annie — pretty  soon.” 

“  Yes,  Grah,  there’s  chance  enough  that  you  11  blow 
away  to’ Annie  pretty  soon,”  remarked  the  other. 

“  Grah  have  white  eagles — fly,  fly  on  the  wind — ■ 
Oh,  Oh,  bubble,  bubble!”  and  he  sent  the  filmy 


30  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

globes  floating  from  the  pipe  that  a  camp  of  river« 
drivers  had  given  the  half-breed  winters  before. 

Pierre  stood  and  looked  at  the  wandering  eyes, 
behind  which  were  the  torturings  of  an  immense  and 
confused  intelligence :  a  life  that  fell  deformed  before 
the  weight  of  too  much  brain,  so  that  all  tottered 
from  the  womb  into  the  gutters  of  foolishness,  and 
the  tongue  mumbled  of  chaos  when  it  should  have 
told  marvelous  things.  And  the  half-breed,  the 
thought  of  this  coming  upon  him,  said  ;  “  Well,  I 
think  the  matters  of  hell  have  fallen  across  the  things 
of  heaven,  and  there  is  storm.  If  for  one  moment 
he  could  think  clear,  it  would  be  great !  ” 

He  bethought  him  of  a  certain  chant,  taught  him 
by  a.  medicine  man  in  childhood,  which,  sung  to  the 
waving  of  a  torch  in  a  place  of  darkness,  caused 
evil  spirits  to  pass  from  those  possessed,  and  good 
spirits  to  reign  in  their  stead.  And  he  raised  the 
Idiot  to  his  feet,  and  brought  him,  maundering,  to  a 
room  where  no  light  was.  He  kneeled  before  him 
with  a  lighted  torch  of  bear’s  fat  and  the  tendons 
of  the  deer,  and  waving  it  gently  to  and  fro,  sang  the 
ancient  rune,  until  the  eye  of  the  Idiot,  following  the 
torch  at  a  tangent  as  it  waved,  suddenly  became  fixed 
upon  the  flame,  when  it  ceased  to  move.  And  the 
words  of  the  chant  ran  through  Grab’s  ears,  and 
pierced  to  the  remote  parts  of  his  being ;  and  a 
sickening  trouble  came  upon  his  face,  and  the  lips 
ceased  to  drip,  and  were  caught  up  in  twinges  of  pain. 
.  .  .  The  chant  rolled  on  :  “  Go  forth,  go  forth  upon 
them,  thou,  the  Scarlet  Hunter  !  Drive  them  forth 
into  the  wilds,  drive  them  crying  forth  /  Enter  in,  O 
enter  in,  and  he  upon  the  couch  of  peace,  the  couch  oj 


GOD'S  GARRISON. 


31 

peace  within  my  wigwam.,  thou  the  wise  07ie  /  Behold., 
I  call  to  thee!''' 

And  Pierre,  looking  upon  the  Idiot,  saw  his  face 
glow,  and  his  eye  stream  steadily  to  the  light,  and  he 
said  :  “  What  is  it  that  you  see.  Grab  ? — speak  !  ” 

All  pitifulness  and  struggle  had  gone  from  the 
Idiot’s  face,  and  a  strong  calm  fell  upon  it,  and  the 
voice  of  a  man  that  God  had  created  spoke  slowly : 
“  There  is  an  end  of  blood.  The  great  chief  Yellow 
Arm  is  fallen.  He  goeth  to  the  plains  where  his  wife 
will  mourn  upon  his  knees,  and  his  children  cry,  be¬ 
cause  he  that  gathered  food  is  gone,  and  the  pots  are 
empty  on  the  tire.  And  they  who  follow  him  shall 
tight  no  more.  Two  shall  live  through  bitter  days, 
and  when  the  leaves  shall  shine  in  the  sun  again, 
there  shall  good  things  befall.  But  one  shall  go  upon 
a  long  journey  with  the  singing  birds  in  the  path  of 
the  white  eagle.  He  shall  travel,  and  not  cease  until 
he  reach  the  place  where  fools,  and  children,  and  they 
into  whom  a  devil  entered  through  the  gates  of  birth, 
find  the  mothers  who  bore  them.  But  the  other 
goeth  at  a  different  time — ”  At  this  point  the  light 
in  Pretty  Pierre’s  hand  flickered  and  went  out,  and 
through  the  darkness  there  came  a  voice,  the  voice  of 
an  idiot  that  whimpered :  “  Grah  want  pipe — Annie, 
Annie  dead.” 

The  angel  of  wisdom  was  gone,  and  chaos  spluttered 
on  the  lolling  lips  again  ;  the  Idiot  sat  feeling  for  the 
pipe  that  he  had  dropped. 

And  never  again  through  the  days  that  came  and 
went  could  Pierre,  by  any  conjuring,  or  any  swaying 
torch,  make  the  fool  into  a  man  again.  The  devils 
of  confusion  were  returned  forever.  But  there  had 


32 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


been  one  glimpse  of  the  god.  And  it  was  as  the 
Idiot  had  said  when  he  saw  with  the  eyes  of  that 
god  :  no  more  blood  was  shed.  The  garrison  of  this 
fort  held  it  unmolested.  The  besiegers  knew  not 
that  two  men  only  stayed  within  the  walls;  and 
because  the  chief  begged  to  be  taken  south  to  die, 
they  left  the  place  surrounded  by  its  moats  of  ice 
and  its  trenches  of  famine ;  and  they  came  not 
back. 

But  other  foes  more  deadly  than  the  angry  heathen 
came,  and  they  were  called  Hunger  and  Loneliness : 
the  one  destroyeth  the  body  and  the  other  the  brain. 
But  Grah  was  not  lonely,  nor  did  he  hunger.  He 
blew  his  bubbles,  and  muttered  of  a  wind  whereon  a 
useless  thing — a  film  of  water,  a  butterfly,  or  a  fool — 
might  ride  beyond  the  reach  of  spirit,  or  man  or 
heathen.  His  flesh  remained  the  same,  and  grew  not 
less;  but  that  of  Pierre  wasted,  and  his  eye  grew 
darker  with  suffering.  For  man  is  only  man,  and 
hunger  is  a  cruel  thing.  To  give  one’s  food  to  feed 
a  fool,  and  to  search  the  silent  plains  in  vain  for  any 
living  thing  to  kill,  is  a  matter  for  angels  to  do  and 
bear,  and  not  mere  mortals.  But  this  man  had  a 
strength  of  his  own  like  to  his  code  of  living, 
which  was  his  own  and  not  another’s.  And  at 
last,  when  spring  leaped  gayly  forth  from  the  gray 
cloak  of  winter,  and  men  of  the  H.  B.  C.  came  to 
relieve  Fort  o’  God,  and  entered  at  its  gates,  a  gaunt 
man,  leaning  on  his  rifle,  greeted  them  standing  like 
a  warrior,  though  his  body  was  like  that  of  one  who 
had  lain  in  the  grave.  He  answered  to  the  name  of 
Pierre  without  pride,  but  like  a  man  and  not  as  a  sick 
woman.  And  huddled  on  the  floor  beside  him  was 


GOD'S  GARRISON. 


33 


an  idiot  fondling  a  pipe,  with  a  shred  of  pemmican 
at  his  lips. 

As  if  in  irony  of  man’s  sacrifice,  the  All  Hail  and 
the  Master  of  Things  permitted  the  fool  to  fulfill  his 
own  prophecy,  and  die  of  a  sudden  sickness  in  the 
coming-on  of  summer.  But  he  of  God’s  Garrison 
that  remained  repented  not  of  his  deed.  Such  men 
have  no  repentance,  neither  of  good  nor  evil. 

3 


A  Hazard  of  the  North. 


Nobody  except  Gregory  Thorne  and  myself  knows 
the  history  of  the  Man  and  Woman,  who  lived  on  the 
Height  of  Land,  just  where  Dog  Ear  River  falls  into 
Marigold  Lake.  This  portion  of  the  Height  of  Land 
is  a  lonely  country.  The  sun  marches  over  it  dis¬ 
tantly,  and  the  man  of  the  East — the  braggart — calls 
it  outcast ;  but  animals  love  it ;  and  the  shades  of 
the  long-gone  trapper  and  voyageur  saunter  without 
mourning  through  its  fastnesses.  When  you  are 
in  doubt,  trust  God’s  dumb  creatures-— and  the 
happy  dead  who  whisper  pleasant  promptings  to  us, 
and  whose  knowledge  is  mighty.  Besides,  the  Man 
and  Woman  lived  there,  and  Gregory  Thorne  says 
that  they  could  recover  a  Lost  Paradise.  But  Greg¬ 
ory  Thorne  is  an  insolent  youth.  The  names  of 
these  people  were  John  and  Audrey  Malbrouck  ;  the 
Man  was  known  to  the  makers  of  backwoods  history 
as  Captain  John.  Gregory  says  about  that — but  no, 
not  yet ! — let  his  first  meeting  with  the  Man  and  the 
Woman  be  described  in  his  own  words,  unusual  and 
flippant  as  they  sometimes  are ;  for  though  he  is  a 
graduate  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  and  a  broth¬ 
er  of  a  Right  Honorable,  he  has  conceived  it  his 
duty  to  emancipate  himself  in  point  of  style  in  lan¬ 
guage  ;  and  he  has  succeeded. 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


35 


“  It  was  autumn,”  he  said,  “  all  colors  ;  beautiful 
and  nippy  on  the  Height  of  Land  ;  wild  ducks,  the 
which  no  man  could  number,  and  bear’s  meat  abroad 
in  the  world.  I  was  alone.  I  had  hunted  all  day, 
leaving  my  mark  now  and  then  as  I  journeyed,  with 
a  cache  of  slaughter  here,  and  a  blazed  hickory  there. 
I  was  hungry  as  a  circus  tiger — did  you  ever  eat 
slippery-elm  bark.^ — yes,  I  was  as  bad  as  that.  I 
guessed  from  what  I  had  been  told,  that  the  Mal- 
brouck  show  must  be  hereaway  somewhere.  I  smelled 
the  lake  miles  off — oh,  you  could  too  if  you  were 
half  the  animal  I  am  ;  I  followed  my  nose  and  the 
slippery-elm  between  my  teeth,  and  came  at  a  double- 
quick  suddenly  on  the  fair  domain.  There  the  two 
sat  in  front  of  the  house  like  turtle-doves,  and  as 
silent  as  a  middy  after  his  first  kiss.  Much  as  I 
ached  to  get  my  tooth  into  something  filling,  I  wished 
that  I  had  ’em  under  my  pencil,  with  that  royal  sun 
making  a  rainbow  of  the  lake,  the  woods  all  scarlet 
and  gold,  and  that  mist  of  purple — eh,  you’ve  seen 
it  ? — and  they  sitting  there  monarchs  of  it  all,  like 
that  duffer  of  a  king  who  had  operas  played  for  his 
solitary  benefit.  But  I  hadn’t  a  pencil  and  I  had  a 
hunger,  and  I  said  ‘■How  !'  like  any  other  Injin — 
insolent,  wasn’t  it  ? — and  the  Man  rose,  and  he  said 
I  was  welcome,  and  she  smiled  an  approving  but 
not  very  immediate  smile,  and  she  kept  her  seat, — 
she  kept  her  seat,  my  boy — and  that  was  the  first 
thing  that  set  me  thinking.  She  didn’t  seem  to  be 
conscious  that  there  was  before  her  one  of  the  latest 
representatives  from  London  town  !  But  when  I 
took  an  honest  look  at  her  face,  I  understood.  I ’m 
glad  that  I  had  my  hat  in  my  hand,  polite  as  any 


36  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

Frenchman  on  the  threshold  of  a  Uanchisserie ;  for  I 
learned  very  soon  that  the  Woman  had  been  in  May- 
fair  too,  and  knew  far  more  than  I  did  about  what 
was  what.  When  she  did  rise  to  array  the  supper 
table,  it  struck  me  that  if  Josephine  Beauharnais  had 
been  like  her,  she  might  have  kept  her  hold  on 
Napoleon,'  and  saved  his  fortunes;  made  Europe 
France ;  and  France  the  world.  I  could  not  under¬ 
stand  it.  Jimmy  Haldane  had  said  to  me  when  I 
was  asking  for  Malbrouck’s  place  on  the  compass, — 
‘  Don’t  put  on  any  side  with  them,  my  Greg,  or 
you’ll  take  a  day  off  for  penitence.’  They  were  both 
tall  and  good  to  look  at,  even  if  he  was  a  bit  rugged, 
with  neck  all  wire  and  muscle,  and  had  big  knuckles. 
But  she  had  hands  like  those  in  a  picture  of  Velas¬ 
quez,  with  a  warm  whiteness  and  educated — that’s 
it,  educated  hands ! 

“  She  wasn’t  young,  but  she  seemed  so.  Her  eyes 
looked  up  and  out  at  you  earnestly,  yet  not  inquisi¬ 
tively,  and  more  occupied  with  something  in  her 
mind,  than  with  what  was  before  her.  In  short,  she 
was  a  lady  ;  not  one  by  virtue  of  a  visit  to  the  gods 
that  rule  o’er  Buckingham  Palace,  but  by  the  claims 
of  good  breeding  and  long  descent.  She  puzzled 
me,  eluded  me — she  reminded  me  of  some  one ;  but 
who  ?  Some  one  I  liked,  because  I  felt  a  thrill  of 
admiration  whenever  I  looked  at  her — but  it  was  no 
use,  I  couldn’t  remember.  I  soon  found  myself 
talking  to  her  according  to  St.  James — the  palace, 
you  know — and  at  once  I  entered  a  bet  with  my  be¬ 
loved  aunt,  the  dowager — who  never  refuses  to  take 
my  offer,  though  she  seldom  wins,  and  she’s  ten 
thousand  miles  away,  and  has  to  take  my  word  for 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


2>1 


it — that  I  should  find  out  the  history  of  this  Man 
and  Woman  before  another  Christmas  morning, 
which  wasn’t  more  than  two  months  off.  You  know 
whether  or  not  I  won  it,  my  son,” 

I  had  frequently  hinted  to  Gregory  that  I  was  old 
enough  to  be  his  father,  and  that  in  calling  me  his 
son,  his  language  was  misplaced;  and  I  repeated  it 
at  that  moment.  He  nodded  good-humoredly,  and 
continued  : 

“  I  was  born  insolent,  my  s — my  ancestor.  Well, 
after  I  had  cleared  a  space  at  the  supper  table,  and 
had,  wfith  permission,  lighted  my  pipe,  I  began  to 
talk.  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  I  did  give  them  a  chance  occa¬ 
sionally  ;  don’t  interrupt.  ...  I  gossiped  about 
England,  France,  the  universe.  From  the  brief 
comments  they  made  I  saw  they  knew  all  about  it, 
and  understood  my  social  argot,  all  but  a  few  words 
— is  there  anything  peculiar  about  any  of  my  words  ? 
After  having  exhausted  Europe  and  Asia  I  discussed 
America  ;  talked  about  Quebec,  the  folklore  of  the 
French  Canadians,  the  voyageurs  from  old  Maison- 
neuve  down.  All  the  history  I  knew  I  rallied,  and 
was  suddenly  bowled  out.  For  Malbrouck  followed 
my  trail  from  the  time  I  began  to  talk,  and  in  ten 
minutes  he  had  proved  me  to  be  a  baby  in  knowl¬ 
edge,  an  emaciated  baby ;  he  eliminated  me  from 
the  equation.  He  first  tripped  me  on  the  training 
of  naval  cadets  ;  then  on  the  Crimea  ;  then  on  the 
taking  of  Quebec ;  then  on  the  Franco-Prussian 
War ;  then,  with  a  sudden  round-up,  on  India.  I 
had  been  trusting  to  vague  outlines  of  history  ;  I 
felt  when  he  began  to  talk  that  I  was  dealing  with  a 
man  who  not  only  knew  history,  but  had  lived  it. 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


38 

He  talked  in  the  fewest  but  directest  words,  and 
waxed  eloquent  in  a  blunt  and  colossal  way.  But 
seeing  his  wife’s  eyes  fixed  on  him  intently,  he  sud¬ 
denly  pulled  up,  and  no  more  did  I  get  from  him  on 
the  subject.  He  stopped  so  suddenly  that  in  order 
to  help  over  the  awkwardness,  though  I’m  not  really 
sure  there  was  any,  I  began  to  hum  a  song  to  myself. 
Now,  upon  my  soul,  I  didn’t  think  what  I  was  hum¬ 
ming  ;  it  was  some  subterranean  association  of  things, 
I  suppose — but  that  doesn’t  matter  here.  I  only 
state  it  to  clear  myself  of  any  unnecessary  insolence. 
These  were  the  words  I  was  maundering  with  this 
noble  voice  of  mine  : 

“  ‘  The  news  I  bring,  fair  Lady, 

Will  make  your  tears  run  down — 

Put  off  your  rose-red  dress  so  fine 
And  doff  your  satin  gown  ! 

Monsieur  Malbrouck  is  dead,  alas  ! 

And  buried,  too,  for  aye  ; 

I  saw  four  officers  who  bore 
His  mighty  corse  away. 

•  •••••* 

We  saw  above  the  laurels. 

His  soul  fly  forth  amain. 

And  each  one  fell  upon  his  face 
And  then  rose  up  again. 

And  so  we  sang  the  glories. 

For  which  great  Malbrouck  bled ; 

Mironton,  Mironton,  Miro7itaine, 

Great  Malbrouck,  he  Is  dead.’ 

“  I  felt  the  silence  grow  peculiar,  uncomfortable. 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


39 


I  looked  up.  Mrs.  Malbrouck  was  rising  to  her  feet 
with  a  look  in  her  face  that  would  make  angels  sorry 
■ — a  startled,  sorrowful  thing  that  comes  from  a 
sleeping  pain.  What  an  ass  I  was  !  Why,  the 
Man’s  name  was  Malbrouck;  her  name  was  Mal¬ 
brouck  —  awful  insolence  !  But  surely  there  was 
something  in  the  story  of  the  song  itself  that  had 
moved  her.  As  I  afterwards  knew,  that  v/as  it. 
Malbrouck  sat  still  and  unmoved,  though  I  thought 
I  saw  something  stern  and  masterful  in  his  face  as 
he  turned  to  me ;  but  again  instantly  his  eyes  were 
bent  on  his  wife  with  a  comforting  and  affectionate 
expression.  She  disappeared  into  the  house.  I, 
hoping  to  make  it  appear  that  I  hadn’t  noticed  any¬ 
thing,  dropped  my  voice  a  little  and  went  on,  intend¬ 
ing,  however,  to  stop  at  the  end  of  the  verse  : 

“  ‘  Malbrouck  has  gone  a-fighting, 

Mironton,  Mironton,  Mirojitaiiie  !  ’ 

I  ended  there  ;  because  Malbrouck’s  heavy  hand 
was  laid  on  my  shoulder,  and  he  said :  ‘  If  you 
please,  not  that  song.’ 

“  I  suspect  I  acted  like  an  idiot.  I  stammered 
out  apologies,  went  down  on  my  litanies,  figuratively 
speaking,  and  was  all  the  same  confident  that  my 
excuses  were  making  bad  infernally  worse.  But 
somehow  the  old  chap  had  taken  a  liking  to  me.  — 
No,  of  course  you  couldn’t  understand  that.  Not 
that  he  was  so  old,  you  know ;  but  he  had  the  way 
of  retired  royalty  about  him,  as  if  he  had  lived  life 
up  to  the  hilt,  and  was  all  pulse  and  granite.  Then 
he  began  to  talk  in  his  quiet  way  about  hunting  and 
fishing  ;  about  stalking  in  the  Highlands  and  tiger- 


40 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


hunting  in  India ;  and  wound  up  with  some  wonder¬ 
ful  stuff  about  moose-hunting,  the  sport  of  Canada. 
This  made  me  itch  like  sin,  just  to  get  my  fingers  on 
a  trigger,  with  a  full  moose-yard  in  view.  I  can  feel 
it  now — the  bound  in  the  blood  as  I  caught  at  Mal- 
brouck’s  arm  and  said  :  ‘  By  George,  I  must  kill 
moose  ;  that’s  sport  for  Vikings,  and  I  was  meant 
to  be  a  Viking — or  a  gladiator.’  Malbrouck  at  once 
replied  that  he  would  give  me  some  moose-hunting 
in  December  if  I  would  come  up  to  Marigold  Lake. 
I  couldn’t  exactly  reply  on  the  instant,  because,  you 
see,  there  wasn’t  much  chance  for  board  and  lodging 
thereabouts,  unless — but  he  went  on  to  say  that  I 
should  make  his  house  my  ‘  public,’ — perhaps  he 
dicing  say  it  quite  in  those  terms, — that  he  and  his 
wife  would  be  glad  to  have  me.  With  a  couple  of 
Indians  we  could  go  north-west,  where  the  moose- 
yards  were,  and  have  some  sport  both  exciting  and 
prodigious.  Well,  I’m  a  muff,  I  know,  but  I  didn’t 
refuse  that.  Besides,  I  began  to  see  the  safe  side  of 
the  bet  I  had  made  with  my  aunt,  the  dowager,  and 
I  was  more  than  pleased  with  what  had  come  to  pass 
so  far.  Lucky  for  you,  too,  you  yarn-spinner,  that 
the  thing  did  develop  so,  or  you  wouldn’t  be 
getting  fame  and  shekels  out  of  the  results  of  my 
story. 

Well,  I  got  one  thing  out  of  the  night’s  experience ; 
and  it  was  that  the  Malbroucks  were  no  plebs  ;  that 
they  had  had  their  day  where  plates  are  blue  and 
gold  and  the  spoons  are  solid  coin.  But  what  had 
sent  them  up  here  among  the  moose,  the  Indians, 
and  the  conies — whatever  they  are  }  How  should  I 
get  at  it.?  Insolence,  you  say  .?  Yes,  that.  I  should 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


41 


come  up  here  in  December,  and  I  should  mulct  my 
aunt  in  the  price  of  a  new  breech-loader.  But  I 
found  out  nothing  the  next  morning,  and  I  left  with 
a  paternal  benediction  from  Malbrouck,  and  a  smile 
from  his  wife  that  sent  my  blood  tingling  as  it  hadn’t 
tingled  since  a  certain  season  in  London,  which 
began  with  my  tuneful  lyre  sounding  hopeful  num¬ 
bers,  and  ended  with  it  hanging  on  the  willows. 

“When  I  thought  it  all  over,  as  I  trudged  back  on 
yesterday’s  track,  I  concluded  that  I  had  told  them 
all  my  history  from  my  youth  up  until  now,  and  had 
got  nothing  from  them  in  return.  I  had  exhausted 
my  family  records,  bit  by  bit,  like  a  curate  in  his  first 
parish  ;  and  had  gone  so  far  as  to  testify  that  one  of 
my  ancestors  had  been  banished  to  Australia  for 
political  crimes.  Distinctly  they  had  me  at  an 
advantage,  though,  to  be  sure,  I  had  betrayed  Mrs. 
Malbrouck  into  something  more  than  a  suspicion  of 
emotion. 

“  When  I  got  back  to  my  old  camp,  I  could  find 
out  nothing  from  the  other  fellows  ;  but  Jacques 
Pontiac  told  me  that  his  old  mate.  Pretty  Pierre,  who 
in  recent  days  had  fallen  from  grace,  knew  some¬ 
thing  of  these  people  that  no  one  else  guessed ; 
because  he  had  let  them  a  part  of  his  house  in  the 
parish  of  Ste.  Genevieve  in  Quebec,  years  before. 
Pierre  had  testified  to  one  fact,  that  a  child — a  girl 
— had  been  born  to  Mrs.  Malbrouck  in  his  house, 
but  all  further  knowledge  he  had  withheld.  Pretty 
Pierre  was  off  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  practicing 
his  profession  (chiefly  poker),  and  was  not  available 
for  information.  What  did  I,  Gregory  Thorne,  want 
of  the  information  anyway.^  That’s  the  point,  my 


42 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


son.  Judging  from  after-developments,  I  suppose 
it  was  what  the  foolish  call  occult  sympathy.  Well, 
where  was  that  girl-child  ?  Jacques  Pontiac  didn’t 
know.  Nobody  knew.  And  I  couldn’t  get  rid  of 
Mrs.  Malbrouck’s  face ;  it  haunted  me  ;  the  broad 
brow,  deep  eyes,  and  high-bred  sweetness — all  beauti¬ 
fully  animal.  Don’t  laugh :  I  find  astonishing  like¬ 
nesses  between  the  perfectly  human  and  the  perfectly 
animal.  Did  you  never  see  how  beautiful  and  modest 
the  faces  of  deer  are  ;  how  chic  and  sensitive  is  the 
manner  of  a  hound  ;  nor  the  keen  warm  look  in  the 
eye  of  a  well-bred  mare  ?  Why,  I’d  rather  be  a  good 
horse  of  blood  and  temper  than  half  the  fellows  I 
know.  You  are  not  an  animal  lover  as  I  am  ;  yes, 
even  when  I  shoot  them  or  fight  them  I  admire  them, 
just  as  I’d  admire  a  swordsman  who,  in  quart.,  would 
give  me  death  by  the  wonderful  upper  thrust.  It’s 
all  a  battle  ;  all  a  game  of  love  and  slaughter,  my 
son,  and  both  go  together. 

“  Well,  as  I  say,  her  face  followed  me.  Watch 
how  the  thing  developed.  By  the  prairie-track  I 
went  over  to  Fort  Desire,  near  the  Rockies,  almost 
immediately  after  this,  to  see  about  buying  a  ranch 
with  my  old  chum  at  Trinity,  Polly  Cliffshawe  —  Poly- 
dore,  you  know.  Whom  should  I  meet  in  a  hut  on 
the  ranch  but  Jacques’s  friend.  Pretty  Pierre.  This 
was  luck;  but  he  was  not  like  Jacques  Pontiac,  he 
was  secretive  as  a  Buddhist  deity.  He  had  a  good 
many  of  the  characteristics  that  go  to  a  fashionable 
diplomatist ;  clever,  wicked,  cool,  and  in  speech  do¬ 
ing  the  vanishing  trick,  just  when  you  wanted  him. 
But  my  star  of  fortune  was  with  me.  One  day  Silver- 
bottle,  an  Indian,  being  in  a  murderous  humor,  put 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


43 


a  bullet  in  Pretty  Pierre’s  leg,  and  would  have 
added  another,  only  I  stopped  it  suddenly.  While 
in  his  bed  he  told  me  what  he  knew  of  the  Mal- 
broucks. 

“This  is  the  fashion  of  it: — John  and  Audrey 
Malbrouck  had  come  to  Quebec  in  the  year  1875, 
and  sojourned  in  the  parish  of  Ste.  Genevieve,  in  the 
house  of  the  mother  of  Pretty  Pierre.  Of  an  inquir¬ 
ing  turn  of  mind,  the  French  half-breed  desired  to 
know  concerning  the  history  of  these  English  people, 
who,  being  poor,  were  yet  gentle,  and  spoke  French 
with  a  grace  and  accent  which  was  to  the  French 
Canadian  patois  as  Shakespeare’s  English  is  to  that 
of  Seven  Dials.  Pierre’s  methods  of  inquisitiveness 
were  not  strictly  dishonest.  He  did  not  open  letters, 
he  did  not  besiege  dispatch-boxes,  he  did  not  ask 
impudent  questions  ;  he  watched  and  listened.  In 
his  own  way  he  found  out  that  the  man  had  been  a 
soldier  in  the  ranks,  and  that  he  had  served  in  India. 
They  were  most  attached  to  the  child,  wFose  name 
was  Marguerite.  One  day  a  visitor,  a  lady,  came  to 
them.  She  seemed  to  be  the  cause  of  much  unhap¬ 
piness  to  Mrs.  Malbrouck.  And  Pierre  was  alert 
enough  to  discover  that  this  distinguished-looking 
person  desired  to  take  the  child  away  with  her.  To 
this  the  young  mother  would  not  consent,  and  the 
visitor  departed  with  some  chillingly-polite  phrases, 
— part  English,  part  French, — beyond  the  exact 
comprehension  of  Pierre,  and  leaving  the  father  and 
mother  and  little  Marguerite  happy.  Then,  however, 
these  people  seemed  to  become  suddenly  poorer,  and 
Malbrouck  began  farming  in  a  humble,  but  not 
entirely  successful,  way.  The  energy  of  the  man 


44 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


was  prodigious  ;  but  his  luck  was  sardonic.  Floods 
destroyed  his  first  crops,  prices  ran  low,  debt  ac¬ 
cumulated,  foreclosure  of  mortgage  occurred,  and 
Malbrouck  and  the  wife  and  child  went  west. 

“  Five  years  after.  Pretty  Pierre  saw  them  again 
at  Marigold  Lake  :  Malbrouck  as  agent  for  the 
Hudson’s  Bay  Company — still  poor,  but  contented. 
It  was  at  this  period  that  the  former  visitor  again 
appeared,  clothed  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and, 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  succeeded  in  carrying  off  the 
little  child,  leaving  the  father  and  mother  broken, 
but  still  devoted  to  each  other. 

“  Pretty  Pierre  closed  his  narration  with  these 
words  :  ‘  that  Malbrouck,  he  is  great.  I  have 

not  much  love  of  men,  but  he — well,  if  he  say, — “  See, 
Pierre,  I  go  to  the  home  of  the  white  bear  and  the 
winter  that  never  ends ;  perhaps  we  come  back, 
perhaps  we  die  ;  but  there  will  be  sport  for  men — ” 
Voila  !  I  would  go.  To  know  one  strong  man  in 
this  world  is  good.  Perhaps,  some  time  I  will  go  to 
him — yes.  Pretty  Pierre,  the  gambler,  will  go  to  him, 
and  say :  It  is  good  for  the  wild  dog  that  he  live 
near  the  lion.  And  the  child,  she  was  beautiful ; 
she  had  a  light  heart  and  a  sweet  way.’  ” 

It  was  with  this  slight  knowledge  that  Gregory 
Thorne  set  out  on  his  journey  over  the  great  Canadian 
prairie  to  Marigold  Lake,  for  his  December  moose 
hunt. 

Gregory  has  since  told  me  that,  as  he  traveled 
with  Jacques  Pontiac  across  the  Height  of  Land  to 
his  destination,  he  had  uncomfortable  feelings  ;  pre¬ 
sentiments,  peculiar  reflections  of  the  past,  and 
melancholy — a  thing  far  from  habitual  with  him. 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


45 


Insolence  is  all  very  well,  but  you  cannot  apply  it  to 
indefinite  thoughts  ;  it  isn’t  effective  with  vague  pre¬ 
sentiments.  And  when  Gregory’s  insolence  was 
taken  away  from  him,  he  was  very  like  other  mor¬ 
tals  ;  virtue  had  gone  out  of  him  ;  his  brown  cheek 
and  frank  eye  had  lost  something  of  their  charm. 
It  was  these  unusual  broodings  that  worried  him  ;  he 
waked  up  suddenly  one  night  calling,  “  Margaret ! 
Margaret !  ”  like  any  childlike  lover.  And  that  did 
not  please  him.  He  believed  in  things  that,  as  he 
said  himself,  “  he  could  get  between  his  fingers  ;  ” 
he  had  little  sympathy  with  morbid  sentimentalities. 
But  there  was  an  English  Margaret  in  his  life ;  and 
he,  like  many  another  childlike  man,  had  fallen  in 
love,  and  with  her — very  much  in  love  indeed  ;  and 
a  star  had  crossed  his  love  to  a  degree  that  greatly 
shocked  him  and  pleased  the  girl’s  relatives.  She 
was  the  granddaughter  of  a  certain  haughty  dame 
of  high  degree,  who  regarded  icily  this  poorest  of 
younger  sons,  and  held  her  darling  aloof.  Gregory, 
very  like  a  blunt,  unreasoning  lover,  sought  to  carry 
the  redoubt  by  wild  assault ;  and  was  overwhelm¬ 
ingly  routed.  The  young  lady,  though  finding  some 
avowed  pleasure  in  his  company,  accompanied  by 
brilliant  misunderstanding  of  his  advances  and  full- 
front  speeches,  had  never  given  him  enough  en¬ 
couragement  to  warrant  his  playing  young  Lochinvar 
in  Park  Lane ;  and  his  cup  became  full  when,  at  the 
close  of  the  season,  she  was  whisked  off  to  the  se¬ 
clusion  of  a  country-seat,  whose  walls  to  him  were 
impregnable.  His  defeat  was  then,  and  afterwards, 
complete.  He  pluckily  replied  to  the  derision  of 
his  relatives  with  multiplied  derision,  demanded  his 


46 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE, 


inheritance,  got  his  traps  together,  bought  a  fur  coat, 
and  straightway  sailed  the  wintry  seas  to  Canada. 

His  experiences  had  not  soured  his  temper.  He 
believed  that  every  dog  has  his  day,  and  that  Fate 
was  very  malicious  ;  that  it  brought  down  the  proud, 
and  rewarded  the  patient ;  that  it  took  up  its  abode 
in  marble  halls,  and  was  the  mocker  at  the  feast. 
All  this  had  reference,  of  course,  to  the  time  when 
he  should — rich  as  any  nabob — return  to  London, 
and  be  victorious  over  his  enemy  in  Park  Lane.  It 
was  singular  that  he  believed  this  thing  would  occur  ; 
but  he  did.  He  had  not  yet  made  his  fortune,  but 
he  had  been  successful  in  the  game  of  buying  and 
selling  lands,  and  luck  seemed  to  dog  his  path. 
He  was  fearless,  and  he  had  a  keen  eye  for  all  the 
points  of  every  game — every  game  but  love. 

Yet  he  was  born  to  succeed  in  that  game  too. 
For  though  his  theory  was,  that  everything  should 
be  treated  with  impertinence  before  you  could  get  a 
proper  view  of  it,  he  was  markedly  respectful  to 
people.  No  one  could  resist  him  ;  his  impudence 
of  ideas  was  so  pleasantly  mixed  with  delicately 
suggested  admiration  of  those  to  whom  he  talked. 
It  was  impossible  that  John  Malbrouck  and  his  wife 
could  have  received  him  other  than  they  did  ;  his 
was  the  eloquent,  conquering  spirit. 


11. 

By  the  time  he  reached  Lake  Marigold  he  had 
shaken  off  all  those  hovering  fancies  of  the  woods, 
which,  after  all,  might  only  have  been  the  whisper- 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH.  47 

ings  of  those  friendly  and  far-seeing  spirits  who 
liked  the  lad  as  he  journeyed  through  their  lonely 
pleasure-grounds.  John  Malbrouck  greeted  him 
with  quiet  cordiality,  and  Mrs.  Malbrouck  smiled 
upon  him  with  a  different  smile  from  that  with  which 
she  had  speeded  him  a  month  before  ;  there  v»?as  in 
it  a  new  light  of  knowledge,  and  Gregory  could  not 
understand  it.  It  struck  him  as  singular  that  the 
lady  should  be  dressed  in  finer  garments  than  she 
wore  when  he  last  saw  her;  though _  certainly  her 
purple  became  her.  She  wore  it  as  if  born  to  it  ; 
and  with  an  air  more  sedately  courteous  than  he  had 
ever  seen,  save  at  one  house  in  Park  Lane.  Had 
this  rustle  of  fine  trappings  been  made  for  him  ? 
No  ;  the  woman  had  a  mind  above  such  snobbish¬ 
ness,  he  thought.  He  suffered  for  a  moment  the 
pang  of  a  cynical  idea ;  but  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Mal¬ 
brouck  were  on  him  and  he  knew  that  he  was  as 
nothing  before  her.  Her  eyes— how  they  were  fixed 
upon  him !  Only  two  women  had  looked  so  truth¬ 
fully  at  him  before  ;  his  dead  mother  and— Margaret. 
And  Margaret — why,  how  strangely  now  at  this 
instant  came  the  thought  that  she  was  like  his 
Margaret !  Wonder  sprang  to  his  eyes.  At  that 
moment  a  door  opened  and  a  girl  entered  the  room— 
a  girl  lissome,  sweet-faced,  well-bred  of  manner,  who 
came  slowly  towards  them. 

“  My  daughter,  Mr.  Thorne,”  the  mother  briefly 
remarked.  There  was  no  surprise  in  the  girl’s  face, 
only  an  even  reserve  of  pleasure,  as  she  held  out  her 
hand  and  said  ;  “  Mr.  Gregory  Thorne  and  I  are  old 

_ enemies.”  Gregory  Thorne’s  nerve  forsook  him 

for  an  instant.  He  knew  now  the  reason  of  his 


48 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


vague  presentiments  in  the  woods  ;  he  understood 
why,  one  night,  when  he  had  been  more  childlike 
than  usual  in  his  memory  of  the  one  woman  who 
could  make  life  .joyous  for  him,  the  voice  of  a 
voyageur.,  not  Jacques’s  nor  that  of  anyone  in  camp, 
sang : 

“  My  dear  love,  she  waits  for  me, 

None  other  my  world  is  adorning  ; 

My  true  love  I  come  to  thee, 

My  dear,  the  white  star  of  the  morning ; 

Eagles  spread  out  your  wings, — 

Behold  where  the  red  dawn  is  breaking  I 
Hark,  ’tis  my  darling  sings. 

The  flowers,  the  song-birds  awaking : 

See,  where  she  comes  to  me. 

My  love,  ah,  my  dear  love !  ” 

And  here  she  was.  He  raised  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  and  said  :  Miss  Carley,  you  have  your  enemy 
at  an  advantage.” 

“  Miss  Carley  in  Park  Lane,  Margaret  Malbrouck 
here  in  my  old  home,”  she  replied. 

There  ran  swiftly  through  the  young  man’s  brain 
the  brief  story  that  Pretty  Pierre  had  told  him.  This, 
then,  was  the  child  who  had  been  carried  away,  and 
who,  years  after,  had  made  captive  his  heart  in 
London  town !  Well,  one  thing  was  clear,  the  girl’s 
mother  here  seemed  inclined  to  be  kinder  to  him 
than  was  the  guardian  grandmother — if  she  was  the 
grandmother — because  they  had  their  first  talk  un¬ 
disturbed,  it  may  be,  encouraged  ;  amiable  mothers 
do  such  deeds  at  times. 

“And  now  pray,  Mr.  Thorne,”  she  continued, 
“  may  I  ask  how  came  you  here  in  my  father’s  house 
after  having  treated  me  so  cavalierly  in  London  ? — 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


49 

not  even  sending  a  P.  P.  C.  when  you  vanished  from 
your  worshipers  in  Vanity  Fair.” 

“As  for  my  being  here,  it  is  simply  a  case  of  blind 
fate ;  as  for  my  friends,  the  only  one  I  wanted  to  be 
sorry  for  my  going  was  behind  earthworks  which  I 
could  not  scale  in  order  to  leave  my  card  or — or 
anything  else  of  more  importance  ;  and  being  left  as 
it  were  to  the  inclemency  of  a  winter  world,  I  fled 
from - ” 

She  interrupted  him.  “What — the  conqueror, 

you,  flying  from  your  Moscow  ?  ” 

He  felt  rather  helpless  under  her  gay  raillery ;  but 
he  said  : 

“  Well,  I  didn’t  burn  my  kremlin  behind  me.” 

“  Your  kremlin  ?  ” 

“  My  ships,  then  ;  they— they  are  just  the  same,” 
he  earnestly  pleaded.  Foolish  youth,  to  attempt  to 
take  such  a  heart  by  surprise  and  storm! 

“  That  is  very  interesting,”  she  said,  “  but  hardly 
wise.  To  make  fortunes  and  be  happy  in  new 
countries,  one  should  forget  the  old  ones.  Medita¬ 
tion  is  the  enemy  of  action.” 

“  There’s  one  meditation  could  make  me  conquer 
the  North  Pole,  if  I  could  but  grasp  it  definitely.” 

“  Grasp  the  North  Pole  ?  That  would  be  awkward 
for  your  friends  and  gratifying  to  your  enemies,  if 
one  may  believe  science  and  history.  But,  perhaps, 
you  are  in  earnest  after  all,  poor  fellow  I  for  my 
father  tells  me  you  are  going  over  the  hills  and  far 
away  to  the  moose-yards.  How  valiant  you  are,  and 
how  quickly  you  grasp  the  essentials  of  fortune¬ 
making  !  ” 

“  Miss  Malbrouck,  I  am  in  earnest,  and  I’ve 

4 


50  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

always  been  in  earnest  in  one  thing  at  least.  I  came 
out  here  to  make  money,  and  I’ve  made  some,  and 
shall  make  more  ;  but  just  now  the  moose  are  as 
brands  for  the  burning,  and  I  have  a  gun  sulky  for 
want  of  exercise.” 

“  What  an  eloquent  warrior-temper  !  And  to  whom 
are  your  deeds  of  valor  to  be  dedicated  ?  Before 
whom  do  you  intend  to  lay  your  trophies  of  the 
chase  ?  ” 

“  Before  the  most  provoking  but  most  worshipful 
lady  that  I  know.” 

‘‘  Who  is  the  sylvan  maid  ?  What  princess  of  the 
glade  has  now  the  homage  of  your  impressionable 
heart,  Mr.  Thorne  ?  ” 

^  And  Gregory  Thorne,  his  native  insolence  standing 
him  in  no  stead,  said  very  humbly  : 

“You  are  that  sylvan  maid,  that  princess — ah,  is 
this  fair  to  me,  is  it  fair,  I  ask  you  ?  ” 

“  You  really  mean  that  about  the  trophies  ?”  she 
replied.  “  And  shall  you  return  like  the  mighty 
khans,  with  captive  tigers  and  lions,  led  by  stalwart 
slaves,  in  your  train,  or  shall  they  be  captive  moose 
or  grizzlies  ?  ” 

“  Grizzlies  are  not  possible  here,”  he  said,  with 
cheerful  seriousness,  “but  the  moose  is  possible,  and 
more,  if  you  would  be  kinder — Margaret.” 

“Your  supper,  see,  is  ready,”  she  said.  “  I  ven¬ 
ture  to  hope  your  appetite  has  not  suffered  because 
of  long  absence  from  your  friends.” 

He  could  only  dumbly  answer  by  a  protesting 
motion  of  the  hand,  and  his  smile  was  not  remark¬ 
ably  buoyant. 

Ihe  next  morning  they  started  on  their  moose- 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


51 


hunt.  Gregory  Thorne  was  cast  down  when  he 
crossed  the  threshold  into  the  winter  morning  with¬ 
out  hand-clasp  or  god-speed  from  Margaret  Mal- 
brouck  ;  but  Mrs.  Malbrouck  was  there,  and  Greg¬ 
ory,  looking  into  her  eyes,  thought  how  good  a 
thing  it  would  be  for  him,  if  some  such  face  looked 
benignly  out  on  him  every  morning,  before  he  ven¬ 
tured  forth  into  the  deceitful  day.  But  what  was 
the  use  of  wishing  ?  Margaret  evidently  did  not 
care.  And  though  the  air  was  clear  and  the  sun 
shone  brightly,  he  felt  there  v/as  a  cheerless  wind 
blowing  on  him— a  wind  that  chilled  him ;  and  he 
hummed  to  himself  bitterly  a  song  of  the  voyageurs : 

“  O,  O,  the  winter  wind,  the  north  wind, — 

My  snow-bird,  where  art  thou  gone  1 
O,  O,  the  wailing  wind,  the  night  wind, — 

The  cold  nest;  I  am  alone. 

O,  O,  my  snow-bird  1 

“  O,  O,  the  waving  sky,  the  white  sky, — 

My  snow-bird,  thou  fliest  far; 

O,  O,  the  eagle’s  cry,  the  wild  cry, — 

My  lost  love,  my  lonely  star. 

O,  O,  my  snow-bird  I  ’  ’ 

He  was  about  to  start  briskly  forward  to  join  Mal¬ 
brouck  and  his  Indians,  who  were  already  on  their 
way,  when  he  heard  his  name  called,  and,  turning, 
he  saw  Margaret  in  the  doorway,  her  fingers  held  to 
the  tips  of  her  ears,  as  yet  unused  to  the  frost.  He 
ran  back  to  where  she  stood,  and  held  out  his  hand. 
“  I  was  afraid,”  he  bluntly  said,  “  that  you  wouldn’t 
forsake  your  morning  sleep  to  say  good-bye  to  me.” 

“  It  isn’t  always  the  custom,  is  it,”  she  replied,  “foi 


52 


PIERRE  AA^E  HIS  PEOPLE. 


ladies  to  send  .the  very  early  hunter  away  with  a 
tally-ho  ?  But  since  you  have  the  grace  to  be  afraid 
of  anything,  I  can  excuse  myself  to  myself  for  fleeing 
the  pleasantest  dreams  to  speed  you  on  your  war¬ 
like  path.” 

At  this  he  brightened  very  much,  but  she,  as  if 
repenting  she  had  given  him  so  much  pleasure, 
added ;  “  I  wanted  to  say  good-bye  to  my  father, 
you  know  ;  and - ”  she  paused. 

“  And  ?  ”  he  added. 

“  And  to  tell  him  that  you  have  fond  relatives  in 
the  old  land  who  would  mourn  your  early  taking  off ; 
and,  therefore,  to  beg  him,  for  their  sakes,  to  keep 
you  safe  from  any  outrageous  moose  that  mightn’t 
know  how  the  world  needed  you.” 

“  But  there  you  are  mistaken,”  he  said ;  “  I  haven’t 
any  one  who  would  really  care,  worse  luck  !  except 
the  dowager  ;  and  she,  perhaps,  would  be  consoled  to 
know  that  I  had  died  in  battle, — even  with  a  moose, 
— and  was  clear  of  the  possibility  of  hanging  another 
lost  reputation  on  the  family  tree,  to  say  nothing  of 
suspension  from  any  other  kind  of  tree.  But,  if  it 
should  be  the  other  way ;  if  I  should  see  your  father 
in  the  path  of  an  outrageous  moose — what  then  ?  ” 

“  My  father  is  a  hunter  born,”  she  responded ; 
“  he  is  a  great  man,”  she  proudly  added. 

“  Of  course,  of  course,”  he  replied.  “  Good-bye. 
I’ll  take  him  your  love. — Good-bye  !  ”  and  he  turned 
away. 

“  Good-bye,”  she  gayly  replied  ;  and  yet,  one  look¬ 
ing  closely  would  have  seen  that  this  stalwart  fellow 
was  pleasant  to  her  eyes,  and  as  she  closed  the  door 
to  his  hand  waving  farewell  to  her  from  the  pines, 
she  said,  reflecting  on  his  words  : 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


53 


“  You’ll  take  him  my  love,  will  you  ?  But,  Master 
Gregory,  you  carry  a  freight  of  which  you  do  not 
know  the  measure  ;  and,  perhaps,  you  never  shall, 
though  you  are  very  brave  and  honest,  and  not  so 
impudent  as  you  used  to  be, — and  I’m  not  so  sure 
that  I  like  you  so  much  better  for  that  either,  Mon¬ 
sieur  Gregory.” 

Then  she  went  and  laid  her  cheek  against  her 
mother’s,  and  said;  “They’ve  gone  away  for  big 
game,  mother  dear  ;  what  shall  be  our  quarry  ?  ” 

“  My  child,”  the  mother  replied,  “  the  story  of  our 
lives  since  last  you  were  with  me  is  my  only  quarry. 
I  want  to  know  from  your  own  lips  all  that  you  have 
been  in  that  life  which  once  was  mine  also,  but  far 
away  from  me  now,  even  though  you  come  from  it, 
bringing  its  memories  without  its  messages.” 

“  Dear,  do  you  think  that  life  there  was  so  sweet 
to  me  ?  It  meant  as  little  to  your  daughter  as  to 
you.  She  was  always  a  child  of  the  wild  woods. 
What  rustle  of  pretty  gowns  is  pleasant  as  the  silken 
shiver  of  the  maple  leaves  in  summer  at  this  door  ? 
The  happiest  time  in  that  life  was  when  we  got 
away  to  Polwood  or  Marchurst,  with  the  balls  and 
calls  all  over.” 

Mrs.  Malbrouck  smoothed  her  daughter’s  hand 
gently  and  smiled  approvingly. 

“  But  that  old  life  of  yours,  mother ;  what  was  it  1 
You  said  that  you  would  tell  me  some  day.  Tell  me 
now.  Grandmother  was  fond  of  me — poor  grand¬ 
mother  !  But  she  would  never  tell  me  anything. 
How  I  longed  to  be  back  with  you  !  .  .  .  Sometimes 
you  came  to  me  in  my  sleep,  and  called  to  me  to  come 
with  you  ;  and  then  again,  when  I  was  gay  in  the 
sunshine,  you  came,  and  only  smiled  but  never 


54 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


beckoned ;  though  your  eyes  seemed  to  me  very 
sad,  and  I  wondered  if  mine  would  not  also  become 
sad  through  looking  in  them  so — are  they  sad. 
mother  ?  ”  And  she  laughed  up  brightly  into  her 
mother’s  face. 

“  No,  dear  ;  they  are  like  the  stars.  You  ask  me 
for  my  part  in  that  life.  I  will  tell  you  soon,  but 
not  now.  Be  patient.  Do  you  not  tire  of  this  lonely 
life  ?  Are  you  truly  not  anxious  to  return  to - ” 

“  ‘To  the  husks  that  the  swine  did  eat?  No,  no, 
no ;  for,  see  :  I  was  born  for  a  free,  strong  life ; 
the  prairie  or  the  wild  wood,  or  else  to  live  in  some 
far  castle  in  Welsh  mountains,  where  I  should  never 
hear  the  voice  of  the  social  Thou  must ! — oh,  what 
a  must !  never  to  be  quite  free  or  natural.  To  be 
the  slave  of  the  code.  I  was  born — I  know  not 
how !  but  so  longing  for  the  sky,  and  space,  and 
endless  woods.  I  think  I  never  saw  an  animal  but 
I  loved  it,  nor  ever  lounged  the  mornings  out  at 
Holwood  but  I  wished  it  were  a  hut  on  the  mountain 
side,  and  you  and  father  with  me.”  Here  she  whis¬ 
pered,  in  a  kind  of  awe  :  “  And  yet  to  think  that 

Holwood  is  now  mine,  and  that  I  am  mistress  there, 
and  that  I  must  go  back  to  it — if  only  you  would  go 
back  with  me  .  .  .  ah,  dear,  isn’t  it  your  duty  to  go 
back  with  me  ?  ”  she  added  hesitatingly. 

Audrey  Malbrouck  drew  her  daughter  hungrily  to 
her  bosom,  and  said:  “  Yes,  dear,  I  will  go  back,  if 
it  chances  that  you  need  me  ;  but  your  father  and  I 
have  lived  the  best  days  of  our  lives  here,  and  we 
are  content.  But,  my  Margaret,  there  is  another  to 
be  thought  of  too,  is  there  not  ?  And  in  that  case  is 
my  duty  then  so  clear  ?  ” 

The  girl’s  hand  closed  on  her  mother’s,  and  she 
knew  her  heart  had  been  truly  read. 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


55 


III. 

The  hunters  pursued  their  way,  swinging  grandly 
along  on  their  snow-shoes,  as  they  made  for  the  Wild 
Hawk  Woods.  It  would  seem  as  if  Malbrouck  was 
testing  Gregory’s  strength  and  stride,  for  the  march 
that  day  was  a  long  and  hard  one.  He  was  equal 
to  the  test,  and  even  Big  Moccasin,  the  chief,  grunted 
sound  approval.  But  every  day  brought  out  new 
capacities  for  endurance  and  larger  resources ;  so 
that  Malbrouck,  who  had  known  the  clash  of  civili¬ 
zation  with  barbarian  battle,  and  deeds  both  dour 
and  doughty,  and  who  loved  a  man  of  might,  regarded 
this  youth  with  increasing  favor.  By  simple  pro¬ 
cesses  he  drew  from  Gregory  his  aims  and  ambi¬ 
tions,  and  found  the  real  courage  and  power  behind 
the  front  of  irony — the  language  of  manhood  and 
culture  which  was  crusted  by  free  and  easy  idioms. 
Now  and  then  they  saw  moose-tracks,  but  they  were 
some  days  out  before  they  came  to  a  moose-yard — a 
spot  hoof-beaten  by  the  moose  ;  his  home,  from 
which  he  strays,  and  to  which  he  returns  at  times 
like  a  repentant  prodigal.  Now  the  sport  began. 
The  dog-trains  were  put  out  of  view,  and  Big  Moc¬ 
casin  and  another  Indian  went  off  immediately  to 
explore  the  country  round  about.  A  few  hours,  and 
word  was  brought  that  there  was  a  small  herd  feeding 
not  far  away.  Together  they  crept  stealthily  within 
range  of  the  cattle.  Gregory  Thorne’s  blood  leaped 
as  he  saw  the  noble  quarry,  with  their  widespread 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


56 

horns,  sniffing  .the  air,  in  which  they  had  detected 
something  unusual.  Their  leader,  a  colossal  beast, 
stamped  with  his  forefoot,  and  threw  his  head  back 
with  a  snort. 

“  The  first  shot  belongs  to  you,  Mr.  Thorne,” 
said  Malbrouck.  “  In  the  shoulder,  you  know.  You 
have  him  in  good  line.  I’ll  take  the  heifer.” 

Gregory  showed  all  the  coolness  of  an  old  hunter, 
though  his  lips  twitched  slightly  with  excitement. 
He  took  a  short  but  steady  aim,  and  fired.  The 
beast  plunged  forward  and  then  fell  on  his  knees. 
The  others  broke  away.  Malbrouck  fired  and  killed 
a  heifer,  and  then  all  ran  in  pursuit  as  the  moose 
made  for  the  woods. 

Gregory,  in  the  pride  of  his  first  slaughter,  sprang 
away  towards  the  wounded  leader,  which,  sunk  to  the 
earth,  was  shaking  its  great  horns  to  and  fro.  When 
at  close  range,  he  raised  his  gun  to  fire  again,  but 
the  moose  rose  suddenly,  and  with  a  wild  bellowing 
sound  rushed  at  Gregory,  who  knew  full  well  that  a 
straight  stroke  from  those  hoofs  would  end  his  moose¬ 
hunting  days.  He  fired,  but  to  no  effect.  He  could 
not,  like  a  toreador,  jump  aside,  for  those  mighty 
horns  would  sweep  too  wide  a  space.  He  dropped 
on  his  knees  swiftly,  and  as  the  great  antlers  almost 
touched  him,  and  he  could  feel  the  roaring  breath  of 
the  mad  creature  in  his  face,  he  slipped  a  cartridge 
in,  and  fired  as  he  swung  round ;  but  at  that  instant 
a  dark  body  bore  him  down.  He  was  aware  of 
grasping  those  sweeping  horns,  conscious  of  a  blow 
which  tore  the  flesh  from  his  chest ;  and  then  his 
knife — how  came  it  in  his  hand  ? — the  instinct  of  the 
true  hunter.  He  plunged  it  once,  twice,  past  a 
foaming  mouth,  into  that  firm  body,  and  then  both 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


57 

fell  together  ;  each  having  fought  valiantly  after  his 
kind. 

Gregory  dragged  himself  from  beneath  the  still 
heaving  body,  and  stretched  to  his  feet ;  but  a  blind¬ 
ness  came,  and  the  next  knowledge  he  had  was  of 
brandy  being  poured  slowly  between  his  teeth,  and 
of  a  voice  coming  through  endless  distances :  “  A 
fighter,  a  born  fighter,”  it  said.  “  The  pluck  of 
Lucifer — good  boy !  ” 

Then  the  voice  left  those  humming  spaces  of  in¬ 
finity,  and  said  :  “  Tilt  him  this  way  a  little.  Big 
Moccasin.  There,  press  firmly,  so.  Now  the  hand 
steady — together — tighter — now  the  withes — a  little 
higher  up — cut  them  here.”  There  was  a  slight 
pause,  and  then  :  “  There,  that’s  as  good  as  an  army 
surgeon  could  do  it.  He’ll  be  as  sound  as  a  bell  in 
tw'o  weeks.  Eh,  well,  how  do  you  feel  now  ?  Better  ? 
That’s  right !  Like  to  be  on  your  feet,  would  you  ? 
Wait.  Here,  a  sup  of  this.  There  you  are  .... 
Well  ?  ” 

“  Well,”  said  the  young  man  faintly,  “  he  was  a 
beauty.” 

Malbrouck  looked  at  him  a  moment,  thoughtfully, 
and  then  said  :  “  Yes,  he  was  a  beauty.” 

“  I  want  a  dozen  more  like  him,  and  then  I  shall 
be  able  to  drop  ’em  as  neat  as  you  do.” 

“  H’m  !  the  order  is  large.  I’m  afraid  we  shall 
have  to  fill  it  at  some  other  time ;  ”  and  he  smiled  a 
a  little  grimly. 

“  What !  only  one  moose  to  take  back  to  the 

Height  of  Land,  to - ”  something  in  the  eye  of  the 

other  stopped  him. 

“  To  ?  Yes,  to  ?  ”  and  now  the  eye  had  a  sugges¬ 
tion  of  humor. 


58  riERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

“To  show  I’m  not  a  tenderfoot.” 

“  Yes,  to  show  you’re  not  a  tenderfoot.  I  fancjf 
that  will  be  hardly  necessary.  Oh,  you  will  be  up, 
eh  ?  Well !  ” 

“  Well,  I’m  a  tottering  imbecile.  What’s  the  mat¬ 
ter  with  my  legs  ? — my  prophetic  soul !  it  hurts ! 
Oh,  I  see ;  that’s  where  the  old  warrior’s  hoof  caught 
me  sideways.  Now,  I’ll  tell  you  what,  I’m  going  to 
have  another  moose  to  take  back  to  Marigold  Lake.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yes.  I’m  going  to  take  back  a  young,  live 
moose.” 

“  A  significant  ambition.  For  what  ? — a  sacrifice 
to  the  gods  you  have  offended  in  your  classic  exist¬ 
ence  ?  ” 

“Both.  '  A  peace-offering,  and  a  sacrifice  to — a 
goddess.” 

“Young  man,”  said  the  other,  the  light  of  a  smile 
playing  on  his  lips,  “  ‘  Prosperity  be  thy  page !  ’ 
Big  Moccasin,  what  of  this  young  live  moose  ?  ” 

The  Indian  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

“  But  I  tell  you  I  shall  have  that  live  moose,  if  I 
have  to  stay  here  to  see  it  grow.” 

And  Malbrouck  liked  his  pluck,  and  wished  him 
good  luck.  And  the  good  luck  came.  They  trav¬ 
eled  back  slowly  to  the  Height  of  Land,  making  a 
circuit.  For  a  week  they  saw  no  more  moose  ;  but 
meanwhile  Gregory’s  hurt  quickly  healed.  They 
had  now  left  only  eight  days  in  which  to  get  back  to 
Dog  Ear  River  and  Marigold  Lake.  If  the  young 
moose  was  to  come  it  must  come  soon.  It  came  soon. 

They  chanced  upon  a  moose-yard,  and  while  the 
Indians  were  beating  the  woods,  Malbrouck  and 
Gregory  watched. 


59 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 

Soon  a  cow  and  a  young  moose  came  swinging 
down  to  the  embankment.  Malbrouck  whispered  : 
“  Now  if  you  must  have  your  live  moose,  here’s  a 
lasso.  I’ll  bring  down  the  cow.  The  young  one’s 
horns  are  not  large.  Remember,  no  pulling.  I’ll 
do  that.  Keep  your  broken  chest  and  bad  arm  safe. 
Now  !  ” 

Down  came  the  cow  with  a  plunge  into  the  yard 
■ — dead.  The  lasso,  too,  was  over  the  horns  of  the 
calf,  and  in  an  instant  Malbrouck  was  swinging  away 
with  it  over  the  snow.  It  was  making  for  the  trees 
—exactly  what  Malbrouck  desired.  He  deftly  threw 
the  rope  round  a  sapling,  but  not  too  taut,  lest  the 
moose’s  horns  should  be  injured.  The  plucky  animal 
now  turned  on  him.  He  sprang  behind  a  tree,  and 
at  that  instant  he  heard  the  thud  of  hoofs  behind 
him.  He  turned  to  see  a  huge  bull-moose  bounding 
towards  him.  He  was  between  two  fires,  and  quite 
unarmed.  Those  hoofs  had  murder  in  them.  But 
at  the  instant  a  rifle  shot  rang  out,  and  he  only 
caught  the  forward  rush  of  the  antlers  as  the  beast 
fell. 

The  young  moose  now  had  ceased  its  struggles, 
and  came  forward  to  the  dead  bull  with  that  hollow 
sound  of  mourning  peculiar  to  its  kind.  Though  it 
afterwards  struggled  once  or  twice  to  be  free,  it  be¬ 
came  docile  and  was  easily  taught  when  its  anger 
and  fear  were  over. 

And  Gregory  Thorne  had  his  live  moose.  He 
had  also,  by  that  splendid  shot,  achieved  with  one 
arm,  saved  Malbrouck  from  peril,  perhaps  from 
death. 

They  drew  up  before  the  house  at  Marigold  Lake 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  before  Christmas,  a 


6o 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


triumphal  procession.  The  moose  was  driven,  a 
peaceful  captive  with  a  wreath  of  cedar  leaves  around 
its  neck — the  humorous  conception  of  Gregory 
Thorne.  Malbrouck  had  announced  their  coming 
by  a  blast  from  his  horn,  and  Margaret  was  standing 
in  the  doorway  wrapped  in  furs,  which  may  have 
come  originally  from  Hudson’s  Bay,  but  which  had 
been  deftly  re-manufactured  in  Regent  Street. 

Astonishment,  pleasure,  beamed  in  her  eyes.  She 
clapped  her  hands  gayly,  and  cried :  “  Welcome, 
welcome,  merry-men  all !  ”  She  kissed  her  father  ; 
she  called  to  her  mother  to  come  and  see  ;  then  she 
said  to  Gregory,  with  arch  raillery,  as  she  held  out 
her  hand  :  “  Oh,  companion  of  hunters,  comest  thou 
tike  Jacques  in  Arden  from  dropping  the  tristful 
tear  upon  the  prey  of  others,  or  bringest  thou  quarry 
of  thine  own  ?  Art  thou  a  warrior  sated  with  spoil, 
master  of  the  sports,  spectator  of  the  fight,  Prince, 
or  Pistol  ?  Answer,  what  art  thou  ?  ” 

And  he,  with  a  touch  of  his  old  insolence,  though 
with  something  of  sad  irony  too,  for  he  had  hoped 
for  a  different  fashion  of  greeting,  said : 

“  All,  lady,  all !  The  Olympian  all  !  The  player 
of  many  parts.  I  am  Touchstone,  Jacques,  and  yet 
Orlando  too.” 

“  And  yet  Orlando  too,  my  daughter,”  said  Mal¬ 
brouck  gravely  ;  “  he  saved  your  father  from  the 
hoofs  of  a  moose  bent  on  sacrifice.  Had  your 
father  his  eye,  his  nerve,  his  power  to  shoot  with 
one  arm  a  bull  moose  at  long  range,  so  ! — he  would 
not  refuse  to  be  called  a  great  hunter,  but  wear 
the  title  gladly.” 

Margaret  Malbrouck’s  face  became  anxious  in¬ 
stantly.  “  He  saved  you  from  danger — from  injury, 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH.  6 1 

father  ?  ”  she  slowly  said,  and  looked  earnestly  at 
Gregory  ;  “  but  why  to  shoot  with  one  arm  only  ?  ” 

“  Because  in  a  %ht  of  his  own  with  a  moose — a 
hand-to-hand  fight — he  had  a  bad  moment  with  the 
hoofs  of  the  beast.” 

And  this  young  man,  who  had  a  reputation  for  in¬ 
solence,  blushed,  so  that  the  paleness  which  the  girl 
now  noticed  in  his  face  was  banished  ;  and  to  turn 
the  subject  he  interposed  : 

“  Here  is  the  live  moose  that  I  said  I  should 
bring.  Now  say  that  he’s  a  beauty,  please.  Your 
father  and  I - ” 

But  Malbrouck  interrupted  : 

“  He  lassoed  it  with  his  one  arm,  Margaret.  He 
was  determined  to  do  it  himself,  because,  being  a 
superstitious  gentleman,  as  well  as  a  hunter,  he  had 
some  foolish  notion  that  this  capture  would  propiti¬ 
ate  a  goddess  whom  he  imagined  required  offerings 
of  the  kind.” 

“  It  is  the  privilege  of  the  gods  to  be  merciful,” 
she  said.  “This  peace-offering  should  propitiate 
the  angriest,  cruellest  goddess  in  the  universe  ;  and 
for  one  who  was  neither  angry  nor  really  cruel — • 
well,  she  should  be  satisfied  .  .  .  altogether  satisfied,” 
she  added,  as  she  put  her  cheek  against  the  warm 
fur  of  the  captive’s  neck,  and  let  it  feel  her  hand 
with  its  lips. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute,  and  then  with  his 
old  gay  spirit  all  returned,  and  as  if  to  give  an  air 
not  too  serious  to  the  situation,  Gregory,  remember¬ 
ing  his  Euripides,  said  : 

.  .  .  “  let  the  steer  bleed, 

And  the  rich  altars,  as  they  pay  their  vows, 

Breathe  incense  to  the  gods  :  for  me,  I  rise 
To  better  life,  and  grateful  own  the  blessing.” 


62 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  A  pagan  thought  for  a  Christmas  Eve,”  she  said 
to  him,  with  her  fingers  feeling  for  the  folds  of  silken 
flesh  in  the  throat  of  the  moose  ;  “  but  wounded 
men  must  be  humored.  And,  mother  dear,  here 
are  our  Argonauts  returned  ;  and — and  now  I  think 
I  will  go.” 

With  a  quick  kiss  on  her  father’s  cheek — not  so 
quick  but  he  caught  the  tear  that  ran  through  her 
happy  smile — she  vanished  into  the  house. 

That  night  there  was  gladness  in  this  home. 
Mirth  sprang  to  the  lips  of  the  men  like  foam  on  a 
beaker  of  wine,  so  that  the  evening  ran  towards  mid¬ 
night  swiftly.  All  the  tale  of  the  hunt  was  given  by 
Malbrouck  to  joyful  ears ;  for  the  mother  lived  again 
her  youth  in  the  sunrise  of  this  romance  which  was 
being  sped  before  her  eyes  ;  and  the  father,  knowing 
that  in  this  world  there  is  nothing  so  good  as  cour¬ 
age,  nothing  so  base  as  the  shifting  eye,  looked  on 
the  young  man,  and  was  satisfied,  and  told  his  story 
well ; — told  it  as  a  brave  man  would  tell  it,  bluntly 
as  to  deeds  done,  warmly  as  to  the  pleasures  of  good 
sport,  directly  as  to  all.  In  the  eye  of  the  young 
man  there  had  come  the  glance  of  larger  life,  of  a 
new-developed  manhood.  When  he  felt  that  dun 
body  crashing  on  him,  and  his  life  closing  with  its 
strength,  and  ran  the  good  knife  home,  there  flashed 
through  his  mind  how  much  life  meant  to  the  dying, 
how  much  it  ought  to  mean  to  the  living ;  and  then 
this  girl,  this  Margaret,  swam  before  his  eyes — and 
he  had  been  graver  since. 

He  knew,  as  truly  as  if  she  had  told  him,  that  she 
could  never  mate  with  any  man  who  Avas  a  loiterer 
on  God’s  highway,  who  could  live  life  without  some 
sincerity  in  his  aims.  It  all  came  to  him  again  in 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH.  63 

this  room,  so  austere  in  its  appointments,  yet  so 
gracious,  so  full  of  the  spirit  of  humanity  without  a 
note  of  ennui  or  the  rust  of  careless  deeds.  As  this 
thought  grew  he  looked  at  the  face  of  the  girl,  then 
at  the  faces  of  the  father  and  mother,  and  the 
memory  of  his  boast  came  back — that  he  would  win 
the  stake  he  laid,  to  know  the  story  of  John  and 
Audrey  Malbrouck  before  this  coming  Christmas 
morning.  With  a  faint  smile  at  his  own  past  in¬ 
solent  self,  he  glanced  at  the  clock.  It  was  eleven. 
“  I  have  lost  my  bet,”  he  unconsciously  said  aloud. 

He  was  roused  by  John  Malbrouck  remarking; 
“Yes,  you  have  lost  your  bet  ?  Well,  what  was  it  ?  ” 

The  youth,  the  childlike  quality  in  him,  flushed 
his  face  deeply,  and  then,  with  a  sudden  burst  of 
frankness,  he  said  ; 

“  I  did  not  know  that  I  had  spoken.  As  for  the 
bet,  I  deserve  to  be  thrashed  for  ever  having  made 
it ;  but,  duffer  as  I  am,  I  want  you  to  know  that  I’m 
something  worse  than  duffer.  The  first  time  I  met 
you  I  made  a  bet  that  I  should  know  your  history 
before  Christmas  Day.  I  haven’t  a  word  to  say  for 
myself.  I’m  contemptible.  I  beg  your  pardon; 
for  your  history  is  none  of  my  business.  I  was 
really  interested  ;  that’s  all;  but  your  lives,  I  believe 
it,  as  if  it  was  in  the  Bible,  have  been  great— yes, 
that’s  the  word !  and  I’m  a  better  chap  for  having 
known  you,  though,  perhaps,  I  ve  known  you  all 
along,  because,  you  see,  I’ve  lo  I  ve  been  friends 
with  your  daughter — and — well,  really  I  haven  t 
anything  else  to  say,  except  that  I  hope  you’ll  for¬ 
give  me,  and  let  me  know  you  always. 

Malbrouck  regarded  him  for  a  moment  with  a 
crave  smile,  and  then  looked  toward  his  wife.  Both 


64 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


turned  their  glances  quickly  upon  Margaret,  whose 
eyes  were  on  the  fire ;  the  look  upon  her  face  was 
very  gentle  ;  something  new  and  beautiful  had  come 
to  reign  there. 

A  moment,  and  Malbrouck  spoke :  “You  did 
what  was  youthful  and  curious,  but  not  wrong ;  and 
you  shall  not  lose  your  hazard.  I - ” 

“  No,  do  not  tell  me,”  Gregory  interrupted ;  “  only 
let  me  be  pardoned.” 

“  As  I  said,  lad,  you  shall  not  lose  your  hazard. 
I  will  tell  you  the  brief  tale  of  two  lives.” 

“  But,  I  beg  of  you  !  For  the  instant  I  forgot.  I 
have  more  to  confess.”  And  Gregory  told  them  in 
substance  what  Pretty  Pierre  had  disclosed  to  him  in 
the  Rocky  Mountains. 

When  he  had  finished,  Malbrouck  said:  “My  tale 
then  is  briefer  still :  I  was  a  common  soldier,  English 
and  humble  by  my  mother,  French  and  noble  through 
my  father — noble,  but  poor.  In  Burmah,  at  an  out¬ 
break  among  the  natives,  I  rescued  my  colonel  from 
immediate  and  horrible  death,  though  he  died  in  my 
arms  from  the  injuries  he  received.  His  daughter, 
too,  it  was  my  fortune,  through  God’s  Providence, 
to  save  from  great  danger.  She  became  my  wife. 
You  remember  that  song  you  sang  the  day  we  first 
met  you  ?  It  brought  her  father  back  to  mind  pain¬ 
fully.  When  we  came  to  England,  her  people — her 
mother — would  not  receive  me.  For  myself  I  did 
not  care  ;  for  my  wife,  that  was  another  matter. 
She  loved  me  and  preferred  to  go  with  me  anywhere ; 
to  a  new  country,  preferably.  We  came  to  Canada. 

“We  were  forgotten  in  England.  Time  moves  so 
fast,  even  if  the  records  in  red-books  stand.  Our 
daughter  went  to  her  grandmother  to  be  brought  up 
and  educated  in  England — though  it  was  a  sore  trial 


A  HAZARD  OF  THE  NORTH. 


65 


to  US  both — that  she  might  fill  nobly  that  place  in 
life  for  which  she  is  destined.  With  all  she  learned 
she  did  not  forget  us.  We  were  happy  save  in  her 
absence.  We  are  happy  now ;  not  because  she  is 
mistress  of  Holwood  and  Marchurst — for  her  grand¬ 
mother  and  another  is  dead — but  because  such  as 
she  is  our  daughter,  and - ” 

He  said  no  more.  Margaret  was  beside  him,  and 
her  fingers  were  on  his  lips. 

Gregory  came  to  his  feet  suddenly,  and  with  a 
troubled  face. 

“  Mistress  of  Holwood  and  Marchurst !  ”  he  said ; 
and  his  mind  ran  over  his  own  great  deficiencies, 
and  the  list  of  eligible  and  anxious  suitors  that  Park 
Lane  could  muster.  He  had  never  thought  of  her 
in  the  light  of  a  great  heiress. 

But  he  looked  down  at  her  as  she  knelt  at  her 
father’s  knee,  her  eyes  upturned  to  his,  and  the  tide 
of  his  fear  retreated  ;  for  he  saw  in  them  the  same 
look  that  she  had  cast  on  him,  when  she  leaned  her 
cheek  against  the  moose’s  neck  that  afternoon. 

When  the  clock  struck  twelve  upon  a  moment’s 
pleasant  silence,  John  Malbrouck  said  to  Gregory 
Thorne  : 

“Yes,  you  have  won  your  Christmas  hazard,  my 
boy.” 

But  a  softer  voice  than  his  whispered  : 

“Are  you — content — Gregory  ?  ” 

The  Spirits  of  Christmas-tide,  whose  paths  lie 
north  as  well  as  south,  smiled  as  they  wrote  his  an¬ 
swer  on  their  tablets  ;  for  they  knew,  as  the  man  said, 
that  he  would  always  be  content,  and — which  is 
more  in  the  sight  of  angels — that  the  woman  would 
be  content  also. 


S 


A  Prairie  Vagabond. 

Little  Hammer  was  not  a  success.  He  was  a 
disappointment  to  the  missionaries  ;  the  officials  of 
the  Hudson’s  Bay  Company  said  he  was  “  no  good ;  ” 
the  Mounted  Police  kept  an  eye  on  him  ;  the  Crees 
and  Blackfeet  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  him  ; 
and  the  half-breeds  were  profane  regarding  him. 
But  Little  Hammer  was  oblivious  to  any  depreciation 
of  his  merits,  and  would  not  be  suppressed.  He 
loved  the  Hudson’s  Bay  Company’s  Post  at  Yellow 
Quill  with  an  unwavering  love  ;  he  ranged  the  half- 
breed  hospitality  of  Red  Deer  River,  regardless  of 
it  being  thrown  at  him  as  he  in  turn  threw  it  at  his 
dog ;  he  saluted  Sergeant  Gellatly  with  a  familiar 
Hoiv  f  whenever  he  saw  him  ;  he  borrowed  tabac  of 
the  half-breed  women,  and,  strange  to  say,  paid  it 
back — with  other  tabac  got  by  daily  petition,  until 
his  prayer  was  granted,  at  the  H.  B.  C.  Post.  He 
knew  neither  shame  nor  defeat,  but  where  women 
were  concerned  he  kept  his  word,  and  was  singularly 
humble.  It  was  a  woman  that  induced  him  to  be 
baptized.  The  day  after  the  ceremony  he  begged 
“  the  loan  of  a  dollar  for  the  love  of  God  ”  from  the 
missionary ;  and  being  refused,  straightway,  and 
for  the  only  time  it  was  known  of  him,  delivered  a 
Tumbling  torrent  of  half-breed  profanity,  mixed  with 


A  FA’A/AVE  VAGABOND.  67 

the  unusual  oaths  of  the  barracks.  Then  he  walked 
away  with  great  humility.  There  was  no  swagger 
about  Little  Hammer.  He  was  simply  unquench¬ 
able  and  continuous.  He  sometimes  got  drunk; 
but  on  such  occasions  he  sat  down,  or  lay  down,  in 
the  most  convenient  place,  and,  like  Cassar  beside 
Pompey’s  statue,  wrapped  his  mantle  about  his  face 
and  forgot  the  world.  He  was  a  vagabond  Indian, 
abandoned  yet  self-contained,  outcast  yet  gregarious. 
No  social  ostracism  unnerved  him,  no  threats  of  the 
H.  B.  C.  officials  moved  him  ;  and  when  in  the  win¬ 
ter  of  1876  he  was  driven  from  one  place  to  another, 
starving  and  homeless,  and  came  at  last  emaciated 
and  nearly  dead  to  the  Post  at  Yellow  Quill,  he 
asked  for  food  and  shelter  as  if  it  were  his  right, 
and  not  as  a  mendicant. 

One  night,  shortly  after  his  reception  and  restora¬ 
tion,  he  was  sitting  in  the  store,  silently  smoking  the 
Company’s Sergeant  Gellatly  entered.  Little 
Hammer  rose,  offered  his  hand,  and  muttered, 
^^Hoivr^ 

The  Sergeant  thrust  his  hand  aside,  and  said 
sharply  :  “  Whin  I  take  y’r  hand.  Little  Hammer, 
it’ll  be  to  put  a  grip  an  y’r  wrists  that’ll  stay  there 
till  y’are  in  quarters  out  of  which  y’ll  come  nayther 
winter  nor  summer.  Put  that  in  y’r  pipe  and  smoke 
it,  y’  scamp  !  ” 

Little  Hammer  had  a  bad  time  at  the  Post  that 
night.  Lounging  half-breeds  reviled  him  ;  the  H. 
B.  C.  officials  rebuked  him ;  and  travelers  who  were 
coming  and  going  shared  in  the  derision,  as  foolish 
people  do  where  one  is  brow-beaten  by  many.  At 
last  a  trapper  entered,  whom  seeing.  Little  Hammer 
drew  his  blanket  up  about  his  head.  The  trapper 


68 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


sat  down  very  near  Little  Hammer,  and  began  to 
smoke.  He  laid  his  plug-tabac  and  his  knife  on  the 
counter  beside  him.  Little  Hammer  reached  over 
and  took  the  knife,  putting  it  swiftly  within  his 
blanket.  The  trapper  saw  the  act,  and,  turning 
sharply  on  the  Indian,  called  him  a  thief.  Little 
Hammer  chuckled  strangely  and  said  nothing  ;  but 
his  eyes  peered  sharply  above  the  blanket.  A  laugh 
went  round  the  store.  In  an  instant  the  trapper, 
with  a  loud  oath,  caught  at  the  Indian’s  throat ;  but 
as  the  blanket  dropped  back  he  gave  a  startled  cry. 
There  was  the  flash  of  a  knife,  and  he  fell  back  dead. 
Little  Hammer  stood  above  him,  smiling,  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  turning  to  Sergeant  Gellatly,  held 
out  his  arms  silently  for  the  handcuffs. 

The  next  day  two  men  were  lost  on  the  prairies. 
One  was  Sergeant  Gellatly ;  the  other  was  Little 
Hammer.  The  horses  they  rode  traveled  so  close 
that  the  leg  of  the  Indian  crowded  the  leg  of  the 
white  man  ;  and  the  wilder  the  storm  grew,  the 
closer  still  they  rode.  A  poudre  day,  with  its  steely 
air  and  fatal  frost,  was  an  ill  thing  in  the  world  ; 
but  these  entangling  blasts,  these  wild  curtains  of 
snow,  were  desolating  even  unto  death.  The  sun 
above  was  smothered ;  the  earth  beneath  was  track¬ 
less  ;  the  compass  stood  for  loss  all  round. 

What  could  Sergeant  Gellatly  expect,  riding  with 
a  murderer  on  his  left  hand  :  a  heathen  that  had 
sent  a  knife  through  the  heart  of  one  of  the  lords  of 
the  North .?  What  should  the  gods  do  but  frown,  or 
the  elements  be  at,  but  howling  on  their  path  ?  What 
should  one  hope  for  but  that  vengeance  should  be 
taken  out  of  the  hands  of  mortals,  and  be  delivered 
to  the  angry  spirits? 


A  PRAIRIE  VAGABOiVD. 


69 


But  if  the  gods  were  angry  at  the  Indian,  why 
should  Sergeant  Gellatly  only  sway  to  and  fro,  and 
now  laugh  recklessly,  and  now  fall  sleepily  forward 
on  the  neck  of  his  horse ;  while  the  Indian  rode 
straight,  and  neither  wavered  nor  wandered  in  mind, 
but  at  last  slipped  from  his  horse  and  walked  beside 
the  other  ?  It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  soldier 
heard,  “  Sergeant  Gellatly,  Sergeant  Gellatly,”  called 
through  the  blast;  and  he  thought  it  came  from  the 
skies,  or  from  some  other  world.  “  Me  darlin’,”  he 
said,  “  have  y’  come  to  me  ?  ”  But  the  voice  called 
again  :  “  Sergeant  Gellatly,  keep  awake  !  keep 

awake!  You  sleep,  you  die  ;  that’s  it.  Holy.  Yes. 
How  Then  he  knew  that  it  was  Little  Hammer 
calling  in  his  ear,  and  shaking  him  ;  that  the  Indian 
was  dragging  him  from  his  horse  .  .  .  his  revolver, 
where  was  it  ?  he  had  forgotten  .  .  .  he  nodded  .  .  . 
nodded.  But  Little  Hammer  said:  “Walk,  hell! 
you  walk,  yes  ;  ”  and  Little  Hammer  struck  him 
again  and  again  ;  but  one  arm  of  the  Indian  was 
under  his  shoulder  and  around  him,  and  the  voice 
was  anxious  and  kind.  Slowly  it  came  to  him  that 
Little  Hammer  was  keeping  him  alive  against  the 
will  of  the  spirits — but  why  should  they  strike  him 
instead  of  the  Indian  .?  Was  there  any  sun  in  the 
world  ?  Had  there  ever  been  ?  or  fire  or  heat  any¬ 
where,  or  anything  but  wind  and  snow  in  all  God’s 
universe?  .  .  .  Yes,  there  were  bells  ringing — soft 
bells  of  a  village  church  ;  and  there  was  iiicense 
burning — most  sweet  it  was  !  and  the  coals  in  the 
censer — how  beautiful !  how  comforting !  Lie  laughed 
with  joy  again,  and  he  forgot  how  cold,  how  ma¬ 
liciously  cold,  he  had  been  ;  he  forgot  how  dreadful 
that  hour  was  before  he  became  warm;  when  he 


70 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


was  pierced  by  myriad  needles  through  the  body, 
and  there  was  an  incredible  aching  at  his  heart. 

And  yet  something  kept  thundering  on  his  body, 
and  a  harsh  voice  shrieked  at  him,  and  there  were 
many  lights  dancing  over  his  shut  eyes  ;  and  then 
curtains  of  darkness  were  dropped,  and  centuries  of 
oblivion  came,  and  his  eyes  opened  to  a  comforting 
silence,  and  some  one  was  putting  brandy  between 
his  teeth,  and  after  a  time  he  heard  a  voice  say  : 

you  see  he  was  a  murderer,  “but  he  save  his 
captor,  Voiia,  such  a  heathen !  But  you  will,  all  the 
same,  bring  him  to  justice — you  call  it  that.  But  we 
shall  see.” 

Then  some  one  replied,  and  the  words  passed 
through  an  outer  web  of  darkness  and  an  inner  haze 
of  dreams.  “  The  feet  of  Little  Hammer  were  like 
wood  on  the  floor  when  you  brought  the  two  in, 
Pretty  Pierre — and  lucky  for  them  you  found  them. 
.  .  .  The  thing  would  read  right  in  a  book,  but  it’s 
not  according  to  the  run  of  things  up  here,  not  by  a 
damned  sight !  ” 

“  Private  Bradshaw,”  said  the  first  voice  again, 
“  you  do  not  know  Little  Hammer,  nor  that  story  of 
him.  You  wait  for  the  trial.  I  have  something  to 
say.  You  think  Little  Hammer  care  for  the  prison, 
the  rope  ? — Ah,  when  a  man  wait  five  years  to  kill — 
so !  and  it  is  done,  he  is  glad  sometimes  when  it  is 
all  over.  Sergeant  Gellatly  there  will  wish  he  went 
to  sleep  forever  in  the  snow,  if  Little  Hammer  come 
to  the  rope.  Yes,  I  think.” 

And  Sergeant  Gellatly’s  brain  was  so  numbed  that 
he  did  not  grasp  the  meaning  of  the  words,  though 
he  said  them  over  and  over  again.  ,  .  .  Was  he 
dead  ?  No,  for  his  body  was  beating,  beating  .  .  . 


A  PRAIRIE  VAGABOND.  71 

well,  it  didn’t  matter  .  .  ,  nothing  mattered  ...  he 
was  sinking  to  forgetfulness  .  .  .  sinking. 

So,  for  hours,  for  weeks — it  might  have  been  for 
years — and  then  he  woke,  clear  and  knowing,  to 
“  the  unnatural,  intolerable  day  ” — it  was  that  to 
him,  with  Little  Hammer  in  prison.  It  was  March 
when  his  memory  and  vigor  vanished ;  it  was 
May  when  he  grasped  the  full  remembrance  of 
himself,  and  of  that  fight  for  life  on  the  prairie  ;  of 
the  hands  that  smote  him  that  he  should  not  sleep  ; 
of  Little  Hammer  the  slayer,  who  had  driven  death 
back  •  discomfited,  and  brought  his  captor  safe  to 
where  his  own  captivity  and  punishment  awaited 
him. 

When  Sergeant  Gellatly  appeared  in  court  at  the 
trial  he  refused  to  bear  witness  against  Little  Ham¬ 
mer.  “  D’  ye  think — does  wan  av  y’  think — that  I’ll 
spake  a  word  agin  the  man — haythen  or  no  haythen 
— that  pulled  me  out  of  me  tomb  and  put  me  betune 
the  barrack  quilts  Here’s  the  stripes  aff  me  arm, 
and  to  jail  I’ll  go  ;  but  for  what  wint  before  I  clapt 
the  iron  on  his  wrists,  good  or  avil,  divil  a  word  will 
I  say.  An’  here’s  me  left  hand,  and  there’s  me 
right  fut,  and  an  eye  of  me  too,  that  I’d  part  with, 
for  the  cause  of  him  that’s  done  a  trick  that  your 
honor  wouldn’t  do — an’  no  shame  to  y’  aither — an’ 
y’d  been  where  Little  Hammer  was  with  me.” 

His  honor  did  not  reply  immediately,  but  he 
looked  meditatively  at  Little  Hammer  before  he  said 
quietly, — “  Perhaps  not,  perhaps  not.” 

And  Little  Hammer,  thinking  he  was  expected  to 
speak,  drew  his  blanket  up  closely  about  him  and 
grunted,  “  How  !  ” 

Pretty  Pierre,  the  notorious  half-breed,  was  then 


72 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


called.  He  kissed  the  Book,  making  the  sign  of  the 
Cross  swiftly  as  he  did  so,  and  unheeding  the  irom 
ical,  if  hesitating,  laughter  in  the  court.  Then  he 
said  :  “  Bien.^  I  will  tell  you  the  story  :  the  whole 
truth.  I  was  in  the  Stony  Plains.  Little  Hammer 
was  ‘good  Injin’  then.  .  .  .  Yes,  sacr'e  !  it  is  a  fool 
who  smiles  at  that.  I  have  kissed  the  Book.  Dam  ! 

.  .  .  He  would  be  chief  soon  when  old  Two  Tails 
die.  He  was  proud,  then.  Little  Hammer.  He  go 
not  to  the  Post  for  drink ;  he  sell  not  next  year’s 
furs  for  this  year’s  rations ;  he  shoot  straight.” 

Here  Little  Hammer  stood  up  and  said  :  “  There 
is  too  much  talk.  Let  me  be.  It  is  all  done.  The 
sun  is  set — I  care  not — I  have  killed  him ;  ”  and  then 
he  drew  his  blanket  about  his  face  and  sat  down. 

But  Pierre  continued ;  “  Yes,  you  killed  him — 
quick,  after  five  years — that  is  so ;  but  you  will  not 
speak  to  say  why.  Then,  I  will  speak.  The  Injins 
say  Little  Hammer  will  be  great  man  ;  he  will  bring 
the  tribes  together ;  and  all  the  time  Little  Hammer 
was  strong  and  silent  and  wise.  Then  Brigley  the 
trapper — well,  he  was  a  thief  and  coward.  He  come 
to  Little  Hammer  and  say  :  ‘  I  am  hungry  and  tired.’ 
Little  Hammer  give  him  food  and  sleep.  He  go 
away.  Bien.,  he  come  back  and  say, — ‘  It  is  far  to 
go  ;  I  have  no  horse.’  So  Little  Hammer  give  him  a 
horse  too.  Then  he  come  back  once  again  in  the 
night  when  Little  Hammer  was  away,  and  before 
morning  he  go ;  but  when  Little  Hammer  return, 
there  lay  his  bride — only  an  Injin  girl,  but  his  bride 
— dead!  You  see?  Eh?  No?  Well,  the  Captain 
at  the  Post  he  says  it  was  the  same  as  Lucrece. — I 
say  it  was  like  hell.  It  is  not  much  to  kill  or  to  die 
—that  is  in  the  game ;  but  that  other,  mon  Dieu  J 


A  PRAIRIE  FAG  ABOARD. 


73 


Little  Hammer,  you  see  how  he  hide  his  head :  not 
because  he  kill  the  Tar  quin,  that  Brigley,  but 
because  he  is  a  poor  vaicrien  now,  and  he  once  was 
happy  and  had  a  wife.  .  .  .  What  would  you  do, 
judge  honorable  ?  .  .  Little  Hammer,  I  shake  your 
hand — ^so ! — How  !  ” 

But  Little  Hammer  made  no  reply. 

The  judge  sentenced  Little  Hammer  to  one  month 
in  jail.  He  might  have  made  it  one  thousand 
months — it  would  have  been  the  same  ;  for  when, 
on  the  last  morning,  of  that  month,  they  opened  the 
door  to  set  him  free,  he  was  gone  !  That  is,  the 
Little  Hammer  whom  the  high  gods  knew  was  gone; 
though  an  ill-nourished,  self-strangled  body  was  upn 
right  by  the  wall.  The  vagabond  had  paid  his 
penalty,  but  desired  no  more  of  earth. 

Upon  the  door  was  scratched  the  one  word; 

How  ! 


\ 


She  of  the  Triple  Chevron. 

Between  Archangel’s  Rise  and  Pardon’s  Drive 
on  the  Canadian  Prairie  there  was  but  one  house. 
It  was  a  tavern,  and  was  known  as  Galbraith’s  Place. 
There  was  no  man  in  the  Western  Territories  to 
whom  it  was  not  familiar.  There  was  no  traveler 
who  crossed  the  lonely  waste  but  was  glad  of  it,  and 
would  go  twenty  miles  out  of  his  way  to  rest  a  night 
on  a  corn-husk  bed  that  Jen  Galbraith’s  hands  had 
filled,  to  eat  a  meal  that  she  had  prepared,  and  to 
hear  Peter  Galbraith’s  tales  of  early  days  on  the 
plains,  when  buffalo  were  like  clouds  on  the  horizon, 
when  Indians  were  many  and  hostile,  and  when 
men  called  the  Great  North-West  a  wedge  of  the 
American  desert. 

It  is  night  on  the  prairie.  Jen  G.^lbraith  stands 
in  the  doorway  of  the  tavern  sitting-room  and  watches 
a  mighty  beacon  of  flame  rising  before  her,  a  hun¬ 
dred  yards  away.  Every  night  this  beacon  made 
a  circle  of  light  on  the  prairie,  and  Galbraith’s  Place 
was  in  the  centre  of  the  circle.  Summer  and  winter 
it  burned  from  dusk  to  daylight.  No  hand  fed  it  but 
that  of  Nature.  It  never  failed;  it  was  a  cruse  that 
was  never  empty.  Upon  Jen  Galbraith  it  had  a 
weird  influence.  It  grew  to  be  to  her  a  kind  of 
spiritual  companion,  though,  perhaps,  she  would  not 
so  have  named  it.  This  flaming  gas,  bubbling  up 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON. 


75 


from  the  depths  of  the  earth  on  the  lonely  plains, 
was  to  her  a  mysterious  presence  grateful  to  her ;  the 
receiver  of  her  thoughts,  the  daily  necessity  in  her 
life.  It  filled  her  too  with  a  kind  of  awe  ;  for,  when 
it  burned,  she  seemed  not  herself  alone,  but  another 
self  of  her  whom  she  could  not  quite  understand. 
Yet  she  was  no  mere  dreamer.  Upon  her  practical 
strength  of  body  and  mind  had  come  that  rugged 
poetical  sense,  which  touches  all  who  live  the  life  of 
mountain  and  prairie.  She  showed  it  in  her  speech  ; 
it  had  a  measured  cadence.  She  expressed  it  in  her 
body  ;  it  had  a  free  and  rhythmic  movement.  And 
not  Jen  alone,  but  many  another  dweller  on  the 
prairie,  looked  upon  it  with  a  superstitious  reverence 
akin  to  worship.  A  blizzard  could  not  quench  it ; 
a  gale  of  wind  only  fed  its  strength ;  a  rain  storm 
made  a  mist  about  it,  in  which  it  was  enshrined 
like  a  god. 

Peter  Galbraith  could  not  fully  understand  his 
daughter’s  fascination  for  this  Prairie  Star,  as  the 
North-Western  people  called  it.  It  was  not  without 
its  natural  influence  upon  him  ;  but  he  regarded  it 
most  as  a  comfortable  advertisement,  and  he  lamented 
every  day  that  this  never-failing  gas  well  was  not 
near  a  large  population,  and  he  still  its  owner.  He 
was  one  of  that  large  family  in  the  earth  who  would 
turn  the  best  things  in  their  lives  into  merchandise. 
As  it  was,  it  brought  much  grist  to  his  mill ;  for  he 
was  not  averse  to  the  exercise  of  the  insinuating 
pleasures  of  euchre  and  poker  in  his  tavern  ;  and 
the  hospitality  which  ranchmen,  cowboys,  and 
travelers  sought  at  his  hand  was  often  prolonged, 
and  remunerative  to  him. 

Pretty  Pierre,  who  had  his  patrol  as  gamester  de* 


riERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


76 

fined,  made  semi-annual  visits  to  Galbraith’s  Place. 
It  occurred  generally  after  the  rounding-up  and 
branding  seasons,  when  the  cowboys  and  ranchmen 
v/ere  “flush”  with  money.  It  was  generally  con¬ 
ceded  that  Monsieur  Pierre  would  have  made  an 
early  excursion  to  a  place  where  none  is  ever  “  ordered 
up,”  if  he  had  not  been  free  with  the  money  which 
he  so  plentifully  won. 

Card-playing  was  to  him  a  science  and  a  passion. 
He  loved  to  win  for  winning’s  sake.  After  that, 
money,  as  he  himself  put  it,  was  only  fit  to  be  spent 
•  for  the  good  of  the  country  and  that  men  should 
earn  more.  Since  he  put  his  philosophy  into  instant 
and  generous  practice,  active  prejudice  against  him 
did  not  have  lengthened  life. 

The  Mounted  Police,  or,  as  they  are  more  poeti¬ 
cally  called,  the  Riders  of  the  Plains,  watched  Gal¬ 
braith’s  Place,  not  from  any  apprehension  of  violent 
events,  but  because  Galbraith  was  suspected  of 
infringing  the  prevailing  law  of  Prohibition,  and  be¬ 
cause  for  some  years  it  had  been  a  tradition  and  a 
custom  to  keep  an  eye  on  Pierre. 

As  Jen  Galbraith  stood  in  the  doorway  looking 
abstractedly  at  the  beacon,  her  fingers  smoothing  her 
snowy  apron  the  while,  she  was  thinking  thus  to  her¬ 
self  :  “  Perhaps  father  is  right,  li  that  Prairie  Star 
was  only  at  Vancouver  or  Winnipeg  instead  of  here, 
our  Val  could  be  something  more  than  a  prairie- 
rider.  He’d  have  been  different  if  father  hadn’t 
started  this  tavern  business.  Not  that  our  Val  is 
bad.  He  isn’t ;  but  if  he  had  money  he  could  buy 
a  ranch, — or  something.” 

Our  Val,  as  Jen  and  her  father  called  him,  was  a 
lad  of  twenty-two,  one  year  younger  than  Jen.  He 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON.  77 

was  prairie-rider,  cattle-dealer,  scout,  cowboy,  happy- 
go-lucky  vagrant, — a  splendid  Bohemian  of  the 
plains.  As  Jen  said,  he  was  not  bad ;  but  he  had  a 
fiery,  wandering  spirit,  touched  withal  by  the  sun¬ 
niest  humor.  Ble  had  never  known  any  curb^  but 
Jen’s  love  and  care.  That  had  kept  him  within 
bounds  so  far.  All  men  of  the  prairie  spoke  well  of 
him.  The  great  new  lands  have  codes  and  stand¬ 
ards  of  morals  quite  their  own.  One  enthusiastic 
admirer  of  this  youth  said,  in  Jen’s  hearing :  “  He’s 
a  Christian— Val  Galbraith  !”  That  was  the  west¬ 
ern  way  of  announcing  a  man  as  having  great  civic 
and  social  virtues.  Perhaps  the  respect  for  V al  Gal¬ 
braith  was  deepened  by  the  fact  that  there  was  no 
broncho  or  cayuse  that  he  could  not  tame  to  the 

saddle.  ^  ,  1  1  j 

Jen  turned  her  face  from  the  flame  and  looked 

away  from  the  oasis  of  warmth  it  made,  to  where  the 
light  shaded  away  into  darkness,  a  darkness  that  was 
unbroken  for  many  a  score  of  miles  to  the  north  and 
west.  She  sighed  deeply  and  drew  herself  up  with 
an  agouessive  motion  as  if  she  was  freeing  herself  of 
something.  So  she  was.  She  was  trying  to  shake 
off  a  feeling  of  oppression.  Ten  minutes  ago  the  gas-^ 
lighted  house  behind  her  had  seemed  like  a  prison. 
She  felt  that  she  must  have  air,  space,  and  freedom. 

She  would  have  liked  a  long  ride  on  the  buffalo- 
track.  That,  she  felt,  would  clear  her  mind.  She 
was  no  romantic  creature  out  of  her  sphere,  no  eio 
otic.  She  was  country-born  and  bred,  and  her  blood 
had'been  charged  by  a  prairie  instinct  passing  through 
three  generations.  She  was  part  of  this  life.  Her 
mind  was  free  and  strong  and  her  body  was  free 
and  healthy.  While  that  freedom  and  health  was 


78 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


genial,  it  revolted  against  what  was  gross  or  irregu- 
lar.  She  loved  horses  and  dogs,  she  liked  to  take  a 
gun  and  ride  away  to  the  Poplar  Hills  in  search  of 
game,  she  found  pleasure  in  visiting  the  Indian  Reser¬ 
vation,  and  talking  to  Sun-in-the-North,  the  only  good 
Indian  chief  she  knew  or  that  any  one  else  on  the 
prairies  knew.  She  loved  all  that  was  strong  and 
untamed,  all  that  was  panting  with  wild  and  glow¬ 
ing  life.  Splendidly  developed,  softly  sinewy,  warmly 
bountiful,  yet  without  the  least  physical  over-luxuri¬ 
ance  or  suggestiveness,  Jen,  with  her  tawny  hair 
and  dark-brown  eyes,  was  a  growth  of  unrestrained, 
unconventional  and  eloquent  life.  Like  Nature 
around  her,  glowing  and  fresh,  yet  glowing  and  hardy. 
There  was,  however,  just  a  strain  of  pensiveness 
in  her,  partly  owing  to  the  fact  that  there  were  no 
women  near  her,  that  she  had  virtually  lived  her  life 
as  a  woman  alone. 


II. 

As  she  thus  looked  into  the  undefined  horizon 
two  things  were  happening  :  a  traveler  was  approach¬ 
ing  Galbraith’s  Place  from  a  point  in  that  horizon ; 
and  in  the  house  behind  her  some  one  was  singing. 
The  traveler  sat  erect  upon  his  horse.  He  had  not 
the  free  and  lazy  seat  of  the  ordinary  prairie-rider. 
It  was  a  cavalry  seat  and  a  military  manner.  He 
belonged  to  that  handful  of  men  who  patrol  a  fron¬ 
tier  of  near  a  thousand  miles,  and  are  the  security 
of  peace  in  three  hundred  thousand  miles  of  terri¬ 
tory — the  Riders  of  the  Plains,  the  North-West 
Mounted  Police. 

This  Rider  of  the  Plains  was  Sergeant  Thomas 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHE  FROM. 


79 


Gellatly,  familiarly  known  as  Sergeant  Tom.  Far 
away  as  he  was  he  could  see  that  a  woman  was 
standing  in  the  tavern  door.  He  guessed  who  it 
was,  and  his  blood  quickened  at  the  guessing.  But 
reining  his  horse  on  the  furthest  edge  of  the  lighted 
circle,  he  said,  debatingly  ;  “  I’ve  little  time  enough 
to  get  to  the  Rise,  and  the  order  was  to  go  through, 
hand  the  information  to  Inspector  Jules,  and  be 
back  within  forty-eight  hours.  Is  it  flesh  and  blood 
they  think  I  am  ?  Me  that’s  just  come  back  from  a 
journey  of  a  hundred  miles,  and  sent  off  again  like 
this  with  but  a  taste  of  sleep  and  little  food,  and  Cor¬ 
poral  Byng  sittin’  there  at  Fort  Desire  with  a  pipe 
in  his  mouth  and  the  fat  on  his  back  like  a  porpoise. 
It’s  famished  I  am  with  hunger,  and  thirty  miles  yet 
to  do  ;  and  s/ie  standin’  there  with  a  six  months’  wel¬ 
come  in  her  eye.  .  .  .  It’s  in  the  interest  of  Justice 
if  I  halt  at  Galbraith’s  Place  for  half-an-hour,  bedad ! 
The  blackguard  hid  away  there  at  Soldier’s  Knee 
will  be  arrested  all  the  sooner ;  for  horse  and  man 
will  be  able  the  better  to  travel.  I’m  glad  it’s  not 
me  that  has  to  take  him,  whoever  he  is.  It’s  little  I 
like  leadin’  a  fellow-creature  towards  the  gallows, 
or  puttin’  a  bullet  into  him  if  he  won’t  come.  .  .  . 
Now  what  will  we  do,  Larry,  me  boy?” — this  to  the 
broncho — “  Go  on  without  bite  or  sup,  me  achin’ 
behind  and  empty  before,  and  you  laggin’  in  the  legs, 
or  stay  here  for  the  slice  of  an  hour  and  get  some 
heart  into  us  ?  Stay  here  is  it,  me  boy  ?  Then  lave 
go  me  fut  with  your  teeth  and  push  on  to  the  Prairie 
Star  there.”  So  saying.  Sergeant  Tom,  whose  lan¬ 
guage  in  soliloquy,  or  when  excited,  was  more 
marked  by  a  brogue  than  at  other  times,  rode  away 
towards  Galbraith’s  Place. 


8o 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


In  the  tavern  at  that  moment,  Pretty  Pierre  was 
sitting  on  the  bar-counter,  where  temperance  drinks 
were  professedly  sold,  singing  to  himself.  His  dress 
was  singularly  neat,  if  coarse,  and  his  slouch  hat 
was  worn  with  an  air  of  jauntiness  that  accorded 
well  with  his  slight  make  and  almost  girlish  delicacy 
of  complexion.  He  was  puffing  a  cigarette  in  the 
breaks  of  the  song.  Peter  Galbraith,  tall,  gaunt,  and 
somber-looking,  sat  with  his  chair  tilted  back  against 
the  wall,  rather  nervously  pulling  at  the  strips  of 
bark  of  which  the  yielding  chair-seat  was  made. 
He  may  or  may  not  have  been  listening  to  the  song 
which  had  run  through  several  verses.  Where  it 
had  come  from,  no  one  knew  ;  no  one  cared  to  know. 
The  number  of  its  verses  were  legion.  Pierre  had 
a  sweet  voice,  of  a  peculiarly  penetrating  quality  ; 
still  it  was  low  and  well-modulated,  like  the  color 
in  his  cheeks,  which  gave  him  his  name. 

These  were  the  words  he  was  singing  as  Sergeant 
Tom  rode  towards  the  tavern  : 

“  The  hot  blood  leaps  in  his  quivering  breast — 

VoiD  !  ’Tis  his  enemies  near  ! 

There’s  a  chasm  deep  on  the  mountain  crest — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear  ! 

They  follow  him  close  and  they  follow  him  fast, 

And  he  flies  like  a  mountain  deer ; 

Then  a  mad,  wild  leap  and  he’s  safe  at  last ! — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear  ! 

A  cry  and  a  leap  and  the  danger’s  past — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear  !  ” 


At  the  close  of  the  verse,  Galbraith  said  :  “  I  don’t 
like  that  song.  I — I  don’t  like  it.  You’re  not  a 
father,  Pierre.” 

“  No,  I  am  not  a  father.  I  have  some  virtue  of 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVROH.  8i 

that.  I  have  spared  the  world  something,  Pete 
Galbraith.” 

“  You  have  the  Devil’s  luck  ;  your  sins  never  get 
you  into  trouble.” 

A  curious  fire  flashed  in  the  half-breed’s  eyes,  and 
he  said,  quietly:  “Yes,  I  have  great  luck;  but  I 
have  my  little  troubles  at  times — at  times.” 

“They’re  different,  though,  from  this  trouble  of 
Val’s.”  There  was  something  like  a  fog  in  the  old 
man’s  throat. 

“Yes,  Val  was  quite  foolish,  you  see.  If  he  had 
killed  a  white  man — Pretty  Pierre,  for  instance — ■ 
well,  there  would  have  been  a  show  of  arrest,  but  he 
could  escape.  It  was  an  In  jin.  The  Government 
cherish  the  Injin  much  in  these  days.  The  redskin 
must  be  protected.  It  must  be  shown  that  at 
Ottawa  there  is  justice.  That  is  droll — quite.  Eh, 
bieu  !  Val  will  not  try  to  escape.  He  waits  too 
long — near  twenty-four  hours.  Then,  it  is  as  you 
see.  .  .  .  You  have  not  told  her  }  ”  He  nodded 
towards  the  door  of  the  sitting-room. 

“  Nothing.  It’ll  come  on  Jen  soon  enough  if  he 
doesn’t  get  away,  and  bad  enough  if  he  does,  and 
can’t  come  back  to  us.  She’s  fond  of  him — as  fond 
of  him  as  a  mother.  Always  was  wiser  than  our 
Val  or  me,  Jen  was.  More  sense  than  a  judge  and 
proud — but  not  too  proud,  Pierre — not  too  proud. 
She  knows  the  right  thing  to  do,  like  the  Scriptures ; 
and  she  does  it  too.  .  .  .  Where  did  you  say  he 
was  hid  ?  ” 

“  In  the  Hollow  at  Soldier’s  Knee.  He  stayed 
too  long  at  Moose  Horn.  In  jins  carried  the  news 
on  to  Fort  Desire.  When  Val  started  south  for  the 
Border  other  Injins  followed,  and  when  a  halt  was 


82 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


made  at  Soldier’s  Knee  they  pushed  across  country 
over  to  Fort  Desire.  You  see,  Val’s  horse  gave  out. 
I  rode  with  him  so  far.  My  horse  too  was  broken 
up.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  Well,  I  knew  a  ranchman 
not  far  from  Soldier’s  Knee.  I  told  Val  to  sleep,  and 
I  would  go  on  and  get  the  ranchman  to  send  him  a 
horse,  while  I  came  on  to  you.  Then  he  could  push 
on  to  the  Border.  I  saw  the  ranchman,  and  he 
swore  to  send  a  horse  to  Val  to-night.  He  will  keep 
his  word.  He  knows  Val.  That  was  at  noon  to-day, 
and  I  am  here,  you  see,  and  you  know  all.  The 
danger  ?  Ah  !  my  friend, — the  Police  Barracks  at 
Archangel’s  Rise.  If  word  is  sent  down  there  from 
Fort  Desire  before  Val  passes,  they  will  have  out  a 
big  patrol,  and  his  chances, — well,  you  know  them, 
the  Riders  of  the  Plains  !  But  Val,  I  think,  will  have 
luck,  and  get  into  Montana  before  they  can  stop  him, 
I  hope  ;  yes.” 

“  If  I  could  do  anything,  Pierre  !  Can’t  we - ” 

The  half-breed  interrupted  :  “  No,  we  can’t  do 
anything,  Galbraith.  I  have  done  all.  The  ranch¬ 
man  knows  me,  he  will  keep  his  word,  by  the  Great 
Heaven  !  ”  It  would  seem  as  if  Pierre  had  reasons 
for  relying  on  the  ranchman  other  than  ordinary 
prairie  courtesy  to  law-breakers. 

“  Pierre,  tell  me  the  whole  story  over,  slow  and 
plain.  It  don’t  seem  nateral  to  think  of  it ;  but  if 
you  go  over  it  again,  perhaps  I  can  get  the  thing 
more  reas’nable  in  my  mind.  No,  it  ain’t  nateral  to 
me,  Pierre — our  Val  running  away!  ”  The  old  man 
leaned  forward  and  put  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

“  Eh,  well,  it  was  an  Injin.  So  much.  It  was  in 
self-defense — a  little,  but  of  course  to  prove  that ! 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON.  83 

There  is  the  difficulty.  You  see,  they  were  all  drink¬ 
ing,  and  the  In  jin — he  was  a  chief — proposed — 
he  proposed  that  Val  should  sell  him  his  sister,  Jen 
Galbraith,  to  be  the  chief’s  squaw.  He  would  give 
him  a  cayuse.  Val’s  blood  came  up  quick — quite 
quick.  You  know  Val.  He  said  between  his  teeth  : 
‘  Look  out.  Snow  Devil,  you  Injin  dog,  or  I’ll  have 
your  heart.  Do  you  think  a  white  girl  is  like  a  redskin 
woman,  to  be  sold  as  you  sell  your  wives  and  daugh¬ 
ters  to  the  squaw-men  and  white  loafers,  you  reptile .?  ’ 
Then  the  Injin  said  an  ugly  word  about  Val’s  sister, 
and  Val  shot  him  dead  like  lightning  !  .  .  .  Yes,  that 
is  good  to  swear,  Galbraith.  You  are  not  the  only 
one  that  curses  the  law  in  this  world.  It  is  not 
Justice  that  fills  the  jails  but  Law.” 

The  old  man  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  in  a  shuffling  kind  of  way.  His  best  days 
were  done,  the  spring  of  his  life  was  gone,  and  the 
step  was  that  of  a  man  who  had  little  more  of  activity 
and  force  with  which  to  turn  the  halting  wheels 
of  life.  His  face  was  not  altogether  good,  yet  it  was 
not  evil.  There  was  a  sinister  droop  to  the  eyelids, 
a  suggestion  of  cruelty  about  the  mouth  ;  but  there 
was  more  of  good-nature  and  passive  strength  than 
either  in  the  general  expression.  One  could  see 
that  some  genial  influence  had  dominated  what  was 
Inherently  cruel  and  sinister  in  him.  Still  the  sin¬ 
ister  predisposition  was  there. 

“  He  can’t  never  come  here,  Pierre,  can  he  ?  ”  he 
said,  despairingly. 

“  No,  he  can’t  come  here,  Galbraith.  And  look  : 
if  the  Riders  of  the  Plains  should  stop  here  to-night, 
or  to-morrow,  you  will  be  cool — cool,  eh  ?  ” 

“Yes,  I  will  be  quite  cool,  Pierre.”  Then  he 


84 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


seemed  to  think  of  something  else  and  looked  up 
half-curiously,  half-inquiringly  at  the  half-breed. 

Pierre  saw  this.  He  whistled  quietly  to  himself 
for  a  little,  and  then  called  the  old  man  over  to 
where  he  sat.  Leaning  slightly  forward  he  made  his 
reply  to  the  look  that  had  been  bent  upon  him.  He 
touched  Galbraith’s  breast  lightly  with  his  delicate 
fingers,  and  said  :  “  I  have  not  much  love  for  the 
world,  Pete  Galbraith,  and  not  much  love  for  men 
and  women  altogether  ;  they  are  fools — nearly  all. 
Some  men — you  know — treat  me  well.  They  drink 
with  me — much.  They  would  make  life  a  hell  for 
me  if  I  was  poor — shoot  me,  perhaps,  quick  ! — if — 
if  I  didn’t  shoot  first.  They  would  wipe  me  with 
their  feet.  They  would  spoil  Pretty  Pierre.”  This 
he  said  with  a  grim  kind  of  humor  and  scorn,  refined 
in  its  suppressed  force.  Fastidious  as  he  was  in  ap¬ 
pearance,  Pierre  was  not  vain.  He  had  been  created 
with  a  sense  of  refinement  that  reduced  the  gross¬ 
ness  of  his  life  ;  but  he  did  not  trade  on  it ;  he 
simply  accepted  it  and  lived  it  naturally  after  his 
kind.  He  was  not  good  at  heart,  and  he  never  pre¬ 
tended  to  be  so.  He  continued  :  “  No,  I  have  not 
much  love  ;  but  Val,  well,  I  think  of  him  some.  His 
tongue  is  straight ;  he  makes  no  lies.  His  heart  is 
fire  ;  his  arms  are  strong  ;  he  has  no  fear.  He  does 
not  love  Pierre  ;  but  he  does  not  pretend  to  love 
him.  He  does  not  think  of  me  like  the  rest.  So 
much  the  more  when  his  trouble  comes  I  help  him. 
I  help  him  to  the  death  if  he  needs  me.  To  make 
him  my  friend — that  is  good.  Eh!  Perhaps.  You 
see,  Galbraith  ?  ” 

The  old  man  nodded  thoughtfully,  and  after  a 
little  pause  said  :  “  I  have  killed  Injins  myself ;  ”  and 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON.  85 

he  made  a  motion  of  his  head  backward,  suggestive 
of  the  past. 

With  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  the  other  replied  : 
‘‘Yes,  so  have  I — sometimes.  But  the  government 
was  different  then,  and  there  were  no  Riders  of  the 
Plains,”  His  white  teeth  showed  menacingly  under 
his  slight  _  mustache.  Then  there  was  another 
pause,  Pierre  was  watching  the  other. 

“  What’s  that  you’re  doing,  Galbraith  ?  ” 

“  Rubbin’  laudanum  on  my  gums  for  this  tooth¬ 
ache,  Have  to  use  it  for  nuralgy,  too,” 

Galbraith  put  the  little  vial  back  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  presently  said  :  “  What  will  you  have  to 
drink.  Pretty  Pierre  ?  ”  That  was  his  way  of  show- 
irig  gratitude, 

“lam  reformed,  I  will  take  coffee,  if  Jen  Gal¬ 
braith  will  make  some.  Too  much  broken  glass 
inside  is  not  good.  Yes.” 

Galbraith  went  into  the  sitting-room  to  ask  Jen  to 
make  the  coffee.  Pierre  still  sitting  on  the  bar- 
counter  sang  to  himself  a  verse  of  a  rough-and-ready, 
satirical  prairie  ballad : 

“  The  Riders  of  the  Plains,  my  boys,  are  twenty  thousand 
strong — 

^  Oh,  Lordy,  don’t  they  make  the  prairies  howl  ! 

’Tis  their  lot  to  smile  on  virtue  and  to  collar  what  is  wrong, 

And  to  intercept  the  happy  flowin’  bowl. 

They  ve  a  notion,  that  in  glory,  when  we  wicked  ones  have 
chains 

They  will  all  be  major-generals — and  that ! 

They’re  a  lovely  band  of  pilgrims  are  the  Riders  of  the 
Plains — 

Will  some  sinner  please  to  pass  around  the  hat  ?  ” 

As  ire  reached  the  last  two  lines  of  the  verse  the 
door  opened  and  Sergeant  Tom  entered.  Pretty 


86  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

Pierre  did  not  stop  singing.  His  eyes  simply  grcM? 
a  little  brighter,  his  cheek  flushed  ever  so  slightly, 
and  there  was  an  increase  of  vigor  in  the  closing 
notes. 

Sergeant  Tom  smiled  a  little  grimly,  then  he  nod¬ 
ded  and  said  :  “  Been  at  it  ever  since.  Pretty  Pierre  ? 
You  were  singing  the  same  song  on  the  same  spot 
when  I  passed  here  six  months  ago.” 

“  Eh,  Sergeant  Tom,  it  is  you  ?  What  brings  you 
so  far  from  your  straw-bed  at  Fort  Desire  ?  ”  and 
from  underneath  his  hat-brim  Pierre  scanned  the 
face  of  the  trooper  closely. 

“  Business,  Not  to  smile  on  virtue,  but  to  collar 
what  is  wrong.  I  guess  you  ought  to  be  ready  by 
this  time  to  go  into  quarters,  Pierre.  You’ve  had  a 
long  innings.” 

‘‘Not  yet,  Sergeant  Tom,  though  I  love  the  Irish, 
and  your  company  would  make  me  happy.  But  I 
am  so  innocent,  and  the  world — it  cannot  spare  me 
yet.  But  I  think  you  come  to  smile  on  virtue,  all 
the  same,  Sergeant  Tom.  She  is  beautiful  is  Jen 
Galbraith.  Ah,  that  makes  your  eye  bright — so. 
You  Riders  of  the  Plains,  you  do  two  things  at  one 
time.  You  make  this  hour  some  one  happy,  and  that 
hour  some  one  unhappy.  In  one  hand  the  soft  glove 
of  kindness,  in  the  other,  voila !  the  cold  glove  of 
steel.  We  cannot  all  be  great  like  that.  Sergeant 
Tom.” 

“Not  great,  but  clever.  Voil^  !  The  Pretty 
Pierre !  In  one  hand  he  holds  the  soft  paper,  the 
pictures  that  deceive — kings,  queens,  and  knaves  ; 
in  the  other,  pictures  in  gold  and  silver — -money  won 
from  the  pockets  of  fools.  And  so,  as  you  say,  bien  ! 
and  we  each  have  our  way,  bedad !  ” 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHE  FROM  8y 

Sergeant  Tom  noticed  that  the  half-breed’s  eyes 
nearly  closed,  as  if  to  hide  the  malevolence  that  was 
in  them.  He  would  not  have  been  surprised  to  see 
a  pistol  drawn.  But  he  was  quite  fearless,  and  if  it 
was  not  his  duty  to  provoke  a  difficulty,  his  fighting 
nature  would  not  shrink  from  giving  as  good  as  he 
got.  Besides,  so  far  as  that  nature  permitted,  he 
hated  Pretty  Pierre.  He  knew  the  ruin  that  this 
gambler  had  caused  here  and  there  in  the  West,  and 
he  was  glad  that  Fort  Desire,  at  any  rate,  knew  him 
less’ than  it  did  formerly. 

Just  then  Peter  Galbraith  entered  with  the  coffee, 
followed  by  Jen.  When  the  old  man  saw  his  visitor 
he  stood  still  with  sudden  fear  ;  but  catching  a  warn¬ 
ing  look  from  the  eye  of  the  half-breed,  he  made  an 
effort  to  be  steady,  and  said  ;  “  Well,  Jen,  if  it  isn’t 
Sergeant  Tom !  And  what  brings  you  down  here. 
Sergeant  Tom  ?  After  some  scalawag  that’s  broke 
the  law  ?  ” 

Sergeant  Tom  had  not  noticed  the  blanched  anx¬ 
iety  in  the  father’s  face,  for  his  eyes  were  seeking 
those  of  the  daughter.  He  answered  the  question 
as  he  advanced  toward  Jen  :  “Yes  and  no,  Galbraith  ; 
I’m  only  takin’  orders  to  those  who  will  be  after  some 
scalawag  by  daylight  in  the  mornin’,  or  before. 
The  hand  of  a  traveler  to  you.  Miss  Jen.” 

Her  eyes  replied  to  his  in  one  language ;  her  lips 
spoke  another,  “And  who  is  the  law-breaker, 
Sergeant  Tom?  ”  she  said,  as  she  took  his  hand. 

Galbraith’s  eyes  strained  towards  the  soldier  till 
the  reply  came  :  “  And  I  don’t  know  that ;  not  wan 
o’  me.  I’d  ridden  in  to  Fort  Desire  from  another 
duty,  a  matter  of  a  hundred  miles,  whin  the  major 
says  to  me,  ‘There’s  murder  been  done  at  Moose 


SS  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

Horn.  Take  these  orders  down  to  Archangel’s  Rise, 
and  deliver  them  and  be  back  here  within  forty-eight 
hours.’  And  here  I  am  on  the  way,  and,  if  I  wasn’t 
ready  to  drop  for  want  of  a  bite  and  sup,  I’d  be  movin’ 
away  from  here  to  the  south  at  this  moment.” 

Galbraith  was  trembling  with  excitement.  Pierre 
warned  him  by  a  look,  and  almost  immediately  after¬ 
ward  gave  him  a  reassuring  nod,  as  if  an  important 
and  favorable  idea  had  occurred  to  him. 

Jen,  looking  at  the  Sergeant’s  handsome  face, 
said  :  “  It’s  six  months  to  a  day  since  you  were 
here.  Sergeant  Tom.” 

“  What  an  almanac  you  are.  Miss  Jen  !  ” 

Pretty  Pierre,  sipping  his  coffee,  here  interrupted 
musingly.  “  But  Miss  Jen’s  almanac  is  not  always 
so  reliable.  So,  I  think.  When  was  I  here  last. 
Miss  Jen  ?  ” 

With  something  like  menace  in  her  eyes  Jen  re¬ 
plied  :  “  You  were  here  six  months  ago  to-day, 

when  you  won  thirty  dollars  from  our  Val ;  and  then 
again,  just  thirty  days  after  that.” 

“Ah,  so!  You  remember  with  a  difference.” 

A  moment  after.  Sergeant  Tom  being  occupied 
in  talking  to  Jen,  Pierre  whispered  to  Peter  Gal¬ 
braith  :  “  His  horse — then  the  laudanum  1  ” 

Galbraith  was  puzzled  for  a  moment,  but  soon 
nodded  significantly,  and  the  sinister  droop  to  his 
eyes  became  more  marked.  He  turned  to  the  Ser¬ 
geant  and  said:  “Your  horse  must  be  fed  as  well 
as  yourself.  Sergeant  Tom,  I’ll  look  after  the  beast, 
and  Jen  will  take  care  of  you.  There’s  some  fresh 
coffee,  isn’t  there,  Jen?” 

Jen  nodded  an  affirmative.  Galbraith  knew  that 
the  Sergeant  would  trust  no  one  to  feed  his  horse 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON.  89 

but  himself,  and  the  offer  therefore  was  made  with 
design. 

Sergeant  Tom  replied  instantly  :  “No,  I’ll  do  it  if 
some  one  will  show  me  the  grass  pile.” 

Pierre  slipped  quietly  from  the  counter,  and  said ; 
“  I  know  the  way,  Galbraith.  I  will  show.” 

Jen  turned  to  the  sitting-room,  and  Sergeant  Tom 
moved  to  the  tavern  door,  followed  by  Pierre,  who, 
as  he  passed  Galbraith,  touched  the  old  man’s  waist¬ 
coat  pocket,  and  said :  “  Thirty  drops  in  the  cof¬ 
fee.” 

Then  he  passed  out,  singing  softly  : 

“  And  he  sleepeth  so  well,  and  he  sleepeth  so  long — 

The  fight  it  was  hard,  my  dear ; 

And  his  foes  were  many  and  swift  and  strong — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear  !  ” 

There  was  danger  ahead  for  Sergeant  Thomas 
Gellatly.  Galbraith  followed  his  daughter  to  the 
sitting-room.  She  went  to  the  kitchen  and  brought 
bread,  and  cold  venison,  and  prairie  fowl,  and  stewed 
dried  apples — the  stay  and  luxury  of  all  rural  Cana¬ 
dian  homes.  The  coffee-pot  was  then  placed  on 
the  table.  Then  the  old  man  said  :  “  Better  give 
him  some  of  that  old  cheese,  Jen,  hadn’t  you  ?  It’s 
in  the  cellar.”  He  wanted  to  be  rid  of  her  for  a  few 
moments. 

“  S’pose  I  had,”  and  Jen  vanished. 

Now  was  Galbraith’s  chance.  He  took  the  vial 
of  laudanum  from  his  pocket,  and  opened  the  coffee¬ 
pot.  It  was  half  full.  This  would  not  suit.  Some¬ 
one  else — Jen — might  drink  the  coffee  also  !  Yet 
it  had  to  be  done.  Sergeant  Tom  should  not  go  on. 
Inspector  Jules  and  his  Riders  of  the  Plains  must 
not  be  put  upon  the  track  of  Val.  Twelve  hours 


90 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


would  make  all  the  difference.  Pour  out  a  cup  of 
coffee  ? — Yes,  of  course,  that  would  do.  It  was 
poured  out  quickly,  and  then  thirty  drops  of  lau¬ 
danum  were  carefully  counted  into  it.  Hark  !  They 
are  coming  back  ! — Just  in  time.  Sergeant  Tom  and 
Pierre  enter  from  outside,  and  then  Jen  from  the 
kitchen.  Galbraith  is  pouring  another  cup  of  coffee 
as  they  enter,  and  he  says  :  “  Just  to  be  sociable  I’m 
goin’  to  have  a  cup  of  coffee  with  you.  Sergeant 
Tom.  How  you  Riders  of  the  Plains  get  waited  on 
hand  and  foot !  ”  Did  some  warning  flash  through 
Sergeant  Tom’s  mind  or  body,  some  mental  shock 
or  some  physical  chill  ?  For  he  distinctly  shivered, 
though  he  was  not  cold.  He  seemed  suddenly  op¬ 
pressed  with  a  sense  of  danger.  But  his  eyes  fell 
on  Jen,  and  the  hesitation,  for  which  he  did  not  then 
try  to  account,  passed.  Jen,  clear-faced  and  true, 
invited  him  to  sit  and  eat,  and  he,  starting  half- 
abstractedly,  responded  to  her,  “Draw  nigh.  Sergeant 
Tom,”  and  sat  down.  Commonplace  as  the  words 
were,  they  thrilled  him,  for  he  thought  of  a  table  of 
his  own  in  a  home  of  his  own,  and  the  same  words 
spoken  every  day,  but  without  the  “  Sergeant,” — ■ 
simply  “  Tom.” 

He  ate  heartily  and  sipped  his  coffee  slowly,  talk¬ 
ing  meanwhile  to  Jen  and  Galbraith.  Pretty  Pierre 
watched  them  all.  Presently  the  gambler  said : 
“  Let  us  go  and  have  our  game  of  euchre,  Pete  Gal¬ 
braith.  Miss  Jen  can  well  take  care  of  Sergeant 
Tom.” 

Galbraith  drank  the  rest  of  his  coffee,  rose,  and 
passed  with  Pierre  into  the  bar-room.  Then  the 
half-breed  said  to  him:  “You  were  careful — thirty 
drops  ?  ” 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON.  91 

-‘Yes,  thirty  drops.”  The  latent  cruelty  of  his 
nature  was  awake. 

That  is  right.  It  is  sleep  ;  not  death.  He  will 
sleep  so  sound  for  half  a  day,  perhaps  eighteen 
hours,  and  then  ! — Val  will  have  a  long  start.” 

In  the  sitting-room  Sergeant  Tom  was  saying  : 
“  Where  is  your  brother.  Miss  Jen  ?  ”  He  had  no 
idea  that  the  order  in  his  pocket  was  for  the  arrest 
of  that  brother.  He  merely  asked  the  question  to 
start  the  talk. 

He  and  Jen  had  met  but  hve  or  six  times  ;  but 
the  impression  left  on  the  minds  of  both  was  pleas¬ 
ant — ineradicable.  Yet,  as  Sergeant  Tom  often 
asked  himself  during  the  past  six  months,  why 
should  he  think  of  her  ?  The  life  he  led  was  one  of 
severe  endurance,  and  harstmess  and  austerity. 
Into  it  there  could  not  possibly  enter  anything  of 
home.  He  was  but  a  non-commissioned  officer  of 
the  Mounted  Police,  and  beyond  that  he  had  nothing. 
Ireland  had  not  been  kind  to  him.  He  had  left  her 
inhospitable  shores,  and  after  years  of  absence  he 
had  but  a  couple  of  hundred  dollars  laid  up — enough 
to  purchase  his  discharge  and  something  over,  but 
nothing  with  which  to  start  a  home.  Ranching 
required  capital.  No,  it  couldn’t  be  thought  of  ; 
and  yet  he  had  thought  of  it,  try  as  he  would  not  to 
do  so.  And  she  ?  There  was  that  about  this  man 
who  had  lived  life  on  two  continents,  in  whose  blood 
ran  the  warm  and  chivalrous  Celtic  fire,  which  ap¬ 
pealed  to  her.  His  physical  manhood  was  noble,  if 
rugged  ;  his  disposition  genial  and  free,  if  schooled, 
but  not  entirely,  to  that  reserve  which  his  occupation 
made  necessary — a  reserve  he  would  have  ^  been 
more  careful  to  maintain,  in  speaking  of  his  mission 


92 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


a  short  time  back  in  the  bar-room,  if  Jen  had  not 
been  there.  She  called  out  the  frankest  part  of 
him  ;  she  opened  the  doors  of  his  nature ;  she 
attracted  confidence  as  the  sun  does  the  sunflower. 

To  his  question  she  replied  :  “I  do  not  know 
where  our  Val  is.  He  went  on  a  hunting  expedition 
up  north.  We  never  can  tell  about  him,  when  he 
will  turn  up  or  where  he  will  be  to-morrow.  He 
may  walk  in  any  minute.  We  never  feel  uneasy. 
He  always  has  such  luck,  and  comes  out  safe  and 
sound  wherever  he  is.  Father  says  Val’s  a  hustler, 
and  that  nothing  can  keep  in  the  road  with  him. 
But  he’s  a  little  wild— a  little.  Still,  we  don’t  hector 
him.  Sergeant  Tom;  hectoring  never  does  any  good, 
does  it  ?  ” 

“No,  hectoring  never  does  any  good.  And  as 
for  the  wildness,  if  the  heart  of  him’s  right,  why 
that’s  aisy  out  of  him  whin  he’s  older.  It’s  a  fine 
lad  I  thought  him,  the  time  I  saw  him  here.  It’s 
his  freedom  I  wish  I  had — me  that  has  to  travel  all 
day  and  part  of  the  night,  and  thin  part  of  the  day 
and  all  night  back  again,  and  thin  a  day  of  sleep 
and  the  same  thing  over  again.  And  that’s  the  life 
of  me,  sayin’  nothin’  of  the  frost  and  the  blizzards, 
and  no  home  to  go  to,  and  no  one  to  have  a  meal 
for  me  like  this  whin  I  turn  up.”  And  the  sergeant 
wound  up  with,  “  Whooroo  !  there’s  a  speech  for  you, 
Miss  Jen  !  ”  and  laughed  good-humoredly.  For  all 
that,  there  was  in  his  eyes  an  appeal  that  went 
straight  to  Jen’s  heart. 

But,  woman-like,  she  would  not  open  the  way  for 
him  to  say  anything  more  definite  just  yet.  She 
turned  the  subject.  And  yet  again,  woman-like,  she 
k»ew  it  would  lead  to  the  same  conclusion  : 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHE  FROM 


93 


“You  must  go  to-night  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  must.” 

“  Nothing — nothing  would  keep  you  ?  ” 

“  Nothing.  Duty  is  duty,  much  as  I’d  like  to 
stay,  and  you  givin’  me  the  bid.  But  my  orders 
were  strict.  You  don’t  know  what  discipline  means, 
perhaps.  It  means  obeyin’  commands  if  you  die 
for  it ;  and  my  commands  were  to  take  a  letter  to  In¬ 
spector  Jules  at  Archangel’s  Rise  to-night.  It’s  a 
matter  of  murder  or  the  like,  and  duty  must  be  done, 
and  me  that  sleepy,  not  forgettin’  your  presence,  as 
ever  a  man  was,  and  looked  the  world  in  the  face.” 

He  drank  the  rest  of  the  coffee  and  mechanically 
set  the  cup  down,  his  eyes  closing  heavily  as  he  did 
so.  He  made  an  effort,  however,  and  pulled  himself 
together.  His  eyes  opened,  and  he  looked  at  Jen 
steadily  for  a  moment.  Then  he  leaned  over  and 
touched  her  hand  gently  with  his  fingers, — Pierre’s 
glove  of  kindness, — and  said  :  “  It’s  in  my  heart  to 
want  to  stay  ;  but  a  sight  of  you  I’ll  have  on  my 
way  back.  But  I  must  go  on  now,  though  I’m  that 
drowsy  I  could  lie  down  here  and  never  stir  again.” 

Jen  said  to  herself  :  “  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow, 

how  tired  he  is  !  I  wish - but  she  withdrew  her 

hand. 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  and  said,  absently  : 
“  It’s  my  duty  and  it’s  orders,  and  .  .  .  what  was  I 
sayin’  ?  The  disgrace  of  me  if,  if  .  .  .  bedad  !  the 
slape’s  on  me  ;  I’m  awake,  but  I  can’t  open  me  eyes. 
...  If  the  orders  of  me — and  a  good  meal  .  .  .  and 
the  disgrace  .  .  .  to  do  me  duty — looked  the  world 
in  the  face - ” 

During  this  speech  he  staggered  to  his  feet,  Jen 
watching  him  anxiously  the  while.  No  suspicion  of 


94 


PIERRE  AND  HIS-  PEOPLE. 


the  cause  of  his  trouble  crossed  her  mind.  She  set  it 
down  to  extreme  natural  exhaustion.  Presently  feel¬ 
ing  the  sofa  behind  him,  he  dropped  upon  it,  and, 
falling  back,  began  to  breathe  heavily.  But  even  in 
this  physical  stupefaction  he  made  an  effort  to  re¬ 
assert  himself,  to  draw  himself  back  from  the  coming 
unconsciousness.  His  eyes  opened,  but  they  were 
blind  with  sleep  ;  and  as  if  in  a  dream,  he  said  : 
“  My  duty .  .  .  disgrace  .  .  .  along  sleep  .  .  .  Jen, 
dearest  Jen  ” — how  she  started  then  ! — “  it  must  be 
done  .  .  .  my  Jen  !  ”  and  he  said  no  more. 

But  these  few  words  had  opened  up  a  world  for  her 
— a  new-created  world  on  the  instant.  Her  life  was 
illuminated.  She  felt  the  fulness  of  a  great  thought 
suffusing  her  face.  A  beautiful  dream  was  upon  her. 
It  had  come  to  her  out  of  his  sleep.  But  with  its 
splendid  advent  there  came  the  other  thing  that  al¬ 
ways  is  born  with  woman’s  love — an  almost  pathetic 
care  of  the  being  loved.  In  the  deep  love  of  women 
the  maternal  and  protective  sense  works  in  the 
parallels  of  mutual  regard.  In  her  life  now  it  sprang 
full-statured  in  action  ;  love  of  him,  care  of  him  ;  his 
honor  her  honor ;  his  life  her  life.  He  must  not 
sleep  like  this  if  it  was  his  duty  to  go  on.  Yet  how 
utterly  worn  he  must  be  !  She  had  seen  men  brought 
in  from  fighting  prairie  fires  for  three  days  without 
sleep  ;  had  watched  them  drop  on  their  beds,  and  lie 
like  logs  for  thirty-six  hours.  This  sleep  of  her  lover 
was,  therefore,  not  so  strange  to  her;  but  it  was 
perilous  to  the  performance  of  his  duty. 

“Poor  Sergeant  Tom,”  she  said.  “Poor  Tom,” 
she  added  ;  and  then,  with  a  great  flutter  at  the  heart 
at  last,  “  My  Tom  !  ”  Yes,  she  said  that;  but  she 
said  it  to  the  beacon,  to  the  Prairie  Star,  burning 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHE  FRO  AT. 


95 


outside  brighter,  it  seemed  to  her,  than  it  had  ever 
done  before.  Then  she  sat  down  and  watched  him 
for  many  minutes,  thinking  at  the  end  of  each  that 
she  would  wake  him.  But  the  minutes  passed,  his 
breathing  grew  heavier,  and  he  did  not  stir.  The 
Prairie  Star  made  quivering  and  luminous  curtains 
of  red  for  the  windows,  and  Jen’s  mind  was  quiver¬ 
ing  in  vivid  waves  of  feeling  just  the  same.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  was  looking  at  life  now 
through  an  atmosphere  charged  with  some  rare,  refin¬ 
ing  essence,  and  that  in  it  she  stood  exultingly.  Per¬ 
haps  she  did  not  define  it  so  ;  but  that  which  we  define 
she  felt.  And  happy  are  they  who  feel  it,  and,  feeling 
it,  do  not  lose  it  in  this  world,  and  have  the  hope  of 
carrying  it  into  the  next ! 

After  a  time  she  rose,  went  over  to  him  and  touched 
his  shoulder.  It  seemed  strange  to  her  to  do  this 
thing.  She  drew  back  timidly  from  the  pleasant 
shock  of  a  new  experience.  Then  she  remembered 
that  he  ought  to  be  on  his  way,  and  she  shook  him 
gently,  then,  with  all  her  strength,  and  called  to  him 
quietly  all  the  time,  as  if  her  low  tones  ought  to  wake 
him,  if  nothing  else  could.  But  he  lay  in  a  deep  and 
stolid  slumber.  It  was  no  use.  She  went  to  her 
seat  and  sat  down  to  think.  As  she  did  so,  her 
father  entered  the  room. 

“  Did  you  call,  Jen }  ”  he  said  ;  and  turned  to  the 
sofa. 

“I  was  calling  to  Sergeant  Tom.  He’s  asleep 
there  ;  dead-gone,  father.  I  can’t  wake  him.” 

“  Why  should  you  wake  him  ?  He  is  tired.” 

The  sinister  lines  in  Galbraith’s  face  had  deepened 
greatly  in  the  last  hour.  He  went  over  and  looked 
closely  at  the  Sergeant,  followed  languidly  by  Pierre, 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


96 

who  casually  touched  the  pulse  of  the  sleeping  man, 
and  said  as  casually  : 

“  Eh,  he  sleep  well ;  his  pulse  is  like  a  baby  ;  he 
was  tired,  much.  He  has  had  no  sleep  for  one,  two, 
three  nights,  perhaps  ;  and  a  good  meal,  it  make 
him  comfortable,  and  so  you  see  !  ” 

Then  he  touched  lightly  the  triple  chevron  on 
Sergeant  Tom’s  arm,  and  said  : 

“  Eh,  a  man  does  much  work  for  that.  And  then, 
to  be  moral  and  the  friend  of  the  law  all  the  time  !  ” 
Pierre  here  shrugged  his  shoulders.  “  It  is  easier  to 
be  wicked  and  free,  and  spend  when  one  is  rich,  and 
starve  when  one  is  poor,  than  to  be  a  sergeant  and 
wear  the  triple  chevron.  But  the  sleep  will  do  him 
good  just  the  same,  Jen  Galbraith.” 

“  He  said  that  he  must  go  to  Archangel’s  Rise  to¬ 
night,  and  be  back  at  Fort  Desire  to-morrow  night.” 

“Well,  that’s  nothing  to  us,  Jen,”  replied  Galbraith, 
roughly.  “  He’s  got  his  own  business  to  look  after. 
He  and  his  tribe  are  none  too  good  to  us  and  our 
tribe.  He’d  have  your  old  father  up  to-morrow  for 
selling  a  tired  traveler  a  glass  of  brandy ;  and  worse 
than  that,  ay,  a  great  sight  worse  than  that,  mind 
you,  Jen.” 

Jen  did  not  notice,  or,  at  least,  did  not  heed,  the 
excited  emphasis  on  the  last  words.  She  thought 
that  perhaps  her  father  had  been  set  against  the 
Sergeant  by  Pierre. 

“  There,  that’ll  do,  father,”  she  said.  “  It’s  easy 
to  bark  at  a  dead  lion.  Sergeant  Tom’s  asleep,  and 
you  say  things  that  you  wouldn’t  say  if  he  was  awake. 
He  never  did  us  any  harm,  and  you  know  that’s  true, 
father.” 

Galbraith  was  about  to  reply  with  anger  ;  but  he 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHE  PR  OH.  97 

changed  his  mind  and  walked  into  the  bar-room, 
followed  by  Pierre. 

In  Jen’s  mind  a  scheme  had  been  hurriedly  and 
clearly  formed ;  and  with  her,  to  form  it  was  to  put 
it  into  execution.  She  went  to  Sergeant  Tom,  opened 
his  coat,  felt  in  the  inside  pocket,  and  drew  forth  an 
official  envelope.  It  was  addressed  to  Inspector 
Jules  at  Archangel’s  Rise.  She  put  it  back  and 
buttoned  up  the  coat  again.  Then  she  said,  with  her 
hands  firmly  clenching  at  her  side,  “  I’ll  do  it.” 

She  went  into  the  adjoining  room  and  got  a  quilt, 
which  she  threw  over  him,  and  a  pillow,  which  she 
put  under  his  head.  Then  she  took  his  cap  and  the 
cloak  which  she  had  thrown  over  a  chair,  as  if  to 
carry  them  away.  But  another  thought  occurred  to 
her,  for  she  looked  towards  the  bar-room  and  put 
them  down  again;  then  she  glanced  out  of  the  win¬ 
dow  and  saw  that  her  father  and  Pierre  had  gone  to 
lessen  the  volume  of  gas  which  was  feeding  the  flame. 
This,  she  knew,  meant  that  her  father  would  go  to 
bed  when  he  came  back  to  the  house,  and  it  suited 
her  purpose.  .  She  waited  till  they  had  entered  the 
bar-room  again,  and  then  she  went  to  them  and  said, 
“  I  guess  he’s  asleep  for  all  night.  Best  leave  him 
where  he  is.  I’m  going.  Good-night.” 

When  she  got  back  to  the  sitting-room  she  said 
to  herself :  “  How  old  father’s  looking  !  he  seems 
broken  up  to-day.  He  isn’t  what  he  used  to  be.’* 
She  turned  once  more  to  look  at  Sergeant  Tom, 
then  she  went  to  her  room. 

A  little  later  Peter  Galbraith  and  Pretty  Pierre 
went  to  the  sitting-room,  and  the  old  man  drew  from 
the  Sergeant’s  pocket  the  envelope  which  Jen  had 
seen.  Pierre  took  it  from  him.  “  No,  Pete  Gal- 

7 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


98 

braith.  Do  not  be  a  fool.  Suppose  you  steal  that 
paper.  Sergeant  Tom  will  miss  it.  He  will  un¬ 
derstand.  He  will  guess  about  the  drug,  then  you 
will  be  in  trouble.  Val  will  be  safe  now.  This 
Rider  of  the  Plains  will  sleep  long  enough  for  that. 
There,  I  put  the  paper  back.  He  sleeps  like  a  log. 
No  one  can  suspect  the  drug,  and  it  is  all  as  we 
like.  No,  we  will  not  steal ;  that  is  wrong — quite 
wrong  ” — here  Pretty  Pierre  showed  his  teeth — “  we 
will  go  to  bed.  Come  !  ” 

Jen  heard  them  ascend  the  stairs.  She  waited  a 
half-hour,  then  she  stole  into  Val’s  bedroom,  and 
when  she  emerged  again  she  had  a  bundle  of  clothes 
across  her  arm.  A  few  minutes  more  and  she 
walked  into  the  sitting-room  dressed  in  Val’s  clothes, 
and  with  her  hair  closely  wound  on  the  top  of  her 
head. 

The  house  was  still.  The  Prairie  Star  made  the 
room  light  enough  for  her  purpose.  She  took  Ser¬ 
geant  Torp’s  cap  and  cloak  and  put  them  on.  She 
drew  the  envelope  from  his  pocket  and  put  it  in  her 
bosom — she  showed  the  woman  there,  though  for 
the  rest  of  this  night  she  was  to  be  a  Rider  of  the 
Plains, — -Sergeant  Tom, — She  of  the  Triple  Chevron. 

She  went  towards  the  door,  hesitated,  drew  back, 
then  paused,  stooped  down  quickly,  tenderly  touched 
the  soldier’s  brow  with  her  lips,  and  said  :  “  I’ll  do 
it  for  you.  You  shall  not  be  disgraced — Tom.’' 


a  HE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHE  FROM 


99 


III. 

This  was  at  half-past  ten  o’clock.  At  two  o’clock 
a  jaded  and  blown  horse  stood  before  the  door  of 
the  barracks  at  Archangel’s  Rise.  Its  rider,  muffled 
to  the  chin,  was  knocking,  and  at  the  same  time 
pulling  his  cap  down  closely  over  his  head,  “  Thank 
God  the  night  is  dusky,”  he  said.  We  have  heard 
that  voice  before.  The  hat  and  cloak  are  those  of 
Sergeant  Tom,  but,  the  voice  is  that  of  Jen  Gal¬ 
braith.  There  is  some  danger  in  this  act ;  danger 
for  her  lover,  contempt  for  herself  if  she  is  dis¬ 
covered,  Presently  the  door  opens  and  a  corporal 
appears.  “  Who’s  there  ?  Oh,”  he  added,  as  he 
caught  sight  of  the  familiar  uniform ;  “  where 
from  ?  ” 

“  From  ‘Fort  Desire,  Important  orders  to  In¬ 
spector  Jules. — Require  fresh  horse  to  return  with  ; 
must  leave  mine  here. — Have  to  go  back  at  once.” 

“  I  say,”  said  the  corporal,  taking  the  papers — 
“  what’s  your  name  ?  ” 

“  Sergeant  Gellatly.” 

“  Say,  Sergeant  Gellatly,  this  isn’t  accordin’  to 
Hoyle — come  in  the  night  and  go  in  the  night  and 
not  stay  long  enough  to  have  a  swear  at  the  Gover’- 
ment.  Why,  you’re  cornin’  in,  aren’t  you.?  You’re 
cornin’  across  the  door-mat  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
a  warm  while  the  horse  is  gettin’  ready,  aren’t  you. 
Sergeant  Gellatly  ? — Sergeant  Gellatly,  Sergeant  Gel¬ 
latly  !  I’ve  heard  of  you,  but — yes  ;  I  ivill  hurry. 
Here,  Waugh,  this  to  Inspector  Jules  !  If  you 


lOO 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


won't  step  in  and  won’t  drink  and  will  be  unsociable, 
sergeant,  why,  come  on  and  you  shall  have  a  horse 
as  good  as  the  one  you’ve  brought.  I’m  Corporal 
Galna.” 

Jen  led  the  exhausted  horse  to  the  stables.  For¬ 
tunately  there  was  no  lantern  used,  and  therefore 
little  chance  for  the  garrulous  corporal  to  study  the 
face  of  his  companion,  even  if  he  wished  to  do  so. 
The  risk  was  considerable  ;  but  Jen  Galbraith  was 
fired  by  that  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  which  has  held  a 
world  rocking  to  destruction  on  a  balancing  point 
of  safety. 

The  horse  was  quickly  saddled,  Jen  meanwhile 
remaining  silent.  While  she  was  mounting,  Corporal 
Galna  drew  and  struck  a  match  to  light  his  pipe. 
He  held  it  up  for  a  moment  as  if  to  see  the  face  of 
Sergeant  Gellatly.  Jen  had  just  given  a  good-night, 
and  the  horse  the  word  and  a  touch  of  the  spur  at 
the  instant.  Her  face,  that  is,  such  of  it  as  could 
be  seen  above  the  cloak  and  under  the  cap,  was  full 
in  the  light.  Enough  was  seen,  however,  to  call 
forth,  in  addition  to  Corporal  Galna’s  good-night, 
the  exclamation, — “Well,  I’m  blowed!  ” 

As  Jen  vanished  into  the  night  a  moment  after, 
she  heard  a  voice  calling — not  Corporal  Galna’s — • 
“  Sergeant  Gellatly,  Sergeant  Gellatly  !  ”  She  sup¬ 
posed  it  was  Inspector  Jules,  but  she  would  not  turn 
back  now.  Her  work  was  done. 

A  half-hour  later  Corporal  Galna  confided  to  Pri¬ 
vate  Waugh  that  Sergeant  Gellatly  was  too  damned 
pretty  for  the  force — wondered  if  they  called  him 
Beauty  at  Fort  Desire — couldn’t  call  him  Pretty  Gel¬ 
latly,  for  there  was  Pretty  Pierre  who  had  right  of 
possession  to  that  title — would  like  to  ask  him  what 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEER  OH. 


lOI 


soap  he  used  for  his  complexion — ’  twasn’t  this  yel¬ 
low  bar-soap  of  the  barracks,  that  wouldn’t  lather, 
he’d  bet  his  ultimate  dollar. 

Waugh,  who  had  some  time  seen  Sergeant  Gellatly, 
entered  into  a  disputation  on  the  point.  He  said 
that  “  Sergeant  Tom  was  good-looking,  a  regular 
Irish  thoroughbred  ;  but  he  wasn’t  pretty,  not  much  ! 
— guessed  Corporal  Galna  had  nightmare,  and  fin¬ 
ally,  as  the  interest  in  the  theme  increased  in  fervor, 
announced  that  Sergeant  Tom  could  loosen  the 
teeth  of,  and  knock  the  spots  off,  any  man  among 
the  Riders  from  Archangel’s  Rise  to  the  Cypress 
Hills.  Pretty  !  not  much — thoroughbred  all  over !  ” 

And  Corporal  Galna  replied  sarcastically, — “  That 
he  might  be  able  for  spot  dispersion  of  such  a  kind, 
but  he  had  two  as  pretty  spots  on  his  cheek,  and  as 
white  as  touch-no-tobacco  teeth  as  any  female  ever 
had.”  Private  Waugh  declared  then  that  Corporal 
Galna  would  be  saying  Sergeant  Gellatly  wasn’t  a 
man  at  all,  and  w^ore  earrings,  and  put  his  hair  into 
papers ;  and  when  he  could  find  no  further  enlarge¬ 
ment  of  sarcasm,  consigned  the  Corporal  to  a  fiery 
place  of  future  torment  reserved  for  lunatics. 

At  this  critical  juncture  Waugh  was  ordered  to 
proceed  to  Inspector  Jules.  A  few  minutes  after,  he 
was  riding  away  toward  Soldier’s  Knee,  with  the 
Inspector  and  another  private,  to  capture  Val  Gal¬ 
braith,  the  slayer  of  Snow  Devil,  while  four  other 
troopers  also  started  off  in  different  directions. 


f  02 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


IV. 

It  was  six  o’cloelc  when  Jen  drew  rein  in  the  yard  at 
Galbraith’s  Place.  Through  the  dank  humors  of  the 
darkest  time  of  the  night,  she  had  watched  the  first 
gray  streaks  of  dawn  appear.  She  had  caught  her 
breath  with  fear  at  the  thought  that,  by  some  accident, 
she  might  not  get  back  before  seven  o’clock,  the  hour 
when  her  father  rose.  She  trembled  also  at  the  sup¬ 
position  of  Sergeant  Tom  awaking  and  finding  his 
papers  gone.  But  her  fearfulness  and  excitement 
was  not  that  of  weakness,  rather  that  of  a  finely 
nervous  nature,  having  strong  elements  of  imagina¬ 
tion,  and,  therefore,  great  capacities  for  suffering  as 
for  joy;  but  yet  elastic,  vigorous,  and  possessing 
unusual  powers  of  endurance.  Such  natures  rebuild 
as  fast  as  they  are  exhausted.  In  the  devitalizing 
time  preceding  the  dawn  she  had  felt  a  sudden  faint¬ 
ness  come  over  her  for  a  moment ;  but  her  will 
surmounted  it,  and,  when  she  saw  the  ruddy  streaks 
of  pink  and  red  glorify  the  horizon,  she  felt  a  sudden 
exaltation  of  physical  strength.  She  was  a  child  of 
the  light,  she  loved  the  warm  flame  of  the  sun,  the 
white  gleam  of  the  moon. 

Holding  in  her  horse  to  give  him  a  five  minutes’ 
rest,  she  rose  in  her  saddle  and  looked  round.  She 
was  alone  in  her  circle  of  vision,  she  and  her  horse. 
The  long  hillocks  of  prairie  rolled  away  like  the  sea 
to  the  flushed  morning,  and  the  far-off  Cypress  Hills 
broke  the  monotonous  skyline  of  the  south.  Already 
the  air  was  dissipated  of  its  choking  weight,  and  the 
vast  solitude  was  filling  with  that  sense  of  freedom 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON. 


103 

which  night  seems  to  shut  in  as  with  four  walls,  and 
day  to  gloriously  widen.  Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes 
from  a  sudden  rush  of  feeling ;  but  her  lips  were 
smiling.  The  world  was  so  different  from  what  it 
was  yesterday.  Something  had  quickened  her  into 
a  glowing  life. 

Then  she  urged  the  horse  on,  and  never  halted  till 
she  reached  home.  She  unsaddled  the  animal  that 
had  shared  with  her  the  hardship  of  the  long,  hard 
ride,  hobbled  it,  and  entered  the  house  quickly.  No 
one  was  stirring.  Sergeant  Tom  was  still  asleep. 
This  she  saw,  as  she  hurriedly  passed  in  and  laid  the 
cap  and  cloak  where  she  had  found  them.  Then, 
once^  again,  she  touched  the  brow  of  the  sleeper  with 
her  lips,  and  went  to  her  room  to  divest  herself  of 
Val’s  clothes.  The  thing  had  been  done  without  any 
one  knowing  of  her  absence.  But  she  was  frightened 
as  she  looked  into  the  mirror.  She  was  haggard,  and 
her  eyes  were  bloodshot.  Eight  hours,  or  nearly,  in 
the  saddle,  at  ten  miles  an  hour,  had  told  on  her 
severely,  as  well  it  might.  Even  a  prairie-born  woman, 
however,  understands  the  art  and  use  of  grooming 
better  than  a  man.  Warm  water  quickly  heated  at 
the  gas,  with  a  little  acetic  acid  in  it, — used  generally 
for  her  scouring, — and  then  cold  water  with  oatmeal 
flour,  took  away  in  part  the  dulness  and  the  lines  in 
the  flesh.  But  the  eyes  !  Jen  remembered  the  vial 
of  tincture  of  myrrh  left  by  a  young  Englishman  a 
year  ago,  and  used  by  him  for  refreshing  his  eyes 
after  a  drinking  bout.  _  She  got  it,  tried  the  tincture, 
and  saw  and  felt  an  immediate  benefit.  Then  she 
made  a  cup  of  strong  green  tea,  and  in  ten  minutes 
was  like  herself  again. 

Now  for  the  horse.  She  went  quickly  out  where 


104 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


she  could  not  be  seen  from  the  windows  of  the  house, 
and  gave  him  a  rubbing  down  till  he  was  quite  dry. 
Then  she  gave  him  a  little  water  and  some  feed.  The 
horse  was  really  the  touchstone  of  discovery.  But 
Jen  trusted  in  her  star.  If  the  worst  came  she  would 
tell  the  tale.  It  must  be  told  any  way  to  Sergeant 
Tom — but  that  was  different  now.  Even  if  the  thing 
became  known  it  would  only  be  a  thing  to  be  teased 
about  by  her  father  and  others,  and  she  could  stop 
that.  Poor  girl !  as  if  that  was  the  worst  that  was  to 
come  from  her  act ! 

Sergeant  Tom  slept  deeply  and  soundly.  He  had 
not  stirred.  His  breathing  was  unnaturally  heavy, 
Jen  thought,  but  no  suspicion  of  foul  play  came  to 
her  mind  yet.  Why  should  it  ?  She  gave  herself  up 
to  a  sweet  and  simple  sense  of  pride  in  the  deed  she 
had  done  for  him,  disturbed  but  slightly  by  the 
chances  of  discovery,  and  the  remembrance  of  the 
match  that  showed  her  face  at  Archangel’s  Rise. 
Her  hands  touched  the  flaxen  hair  of  the  soldier,  and 
her  eyes  grew  luminous.  One  night  had  stirred  all 
her  soul  to  its  depths.  A  new  woman  had  been  born 
in  her.  Val  was  dear  to  her — her  brother  Val ; 
but  she  realized  now  that  another  had  come  who 
would  occupy  a  place  that  neither  father,  nor  brother, 
nor  any  other,  could  fill.  Yet  it  was  a  most  weird  set 
of  tragic  circumstances.  This  man  before  her  had 
been  set  to  do  a  task  v/hich  might  deprive  her  brother 
of  his  life,  certainly  of  his  freedom ;  that  would  disgrace 
him  ;  her  father  had  done  a  great  wrong  too,  had  put 
in  danger  the  life  of  the  man  she  loved,  to  save  his 
son ;  she  herself  in  doing  this  deed  for  her  lover  had 
placed  her  brother  in  jeopardy,  had  crossed  swords 
with  her  father’s  purposes,  had  done  the  one  thing 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHE  FRO. V. 


105 

that  stood  between  that  father’s  son  and  safety ; 
Pretty  Pierre,  whom  she  hated  and  despised,  and 
thought  to  be  the  enemy  of  her  brother  and  of  her 
home,  had  proved  himself  a  friend  ;  and  behind  it  all 
was  the  brother’s  crime  committed  to  avenge  an  in¬ 
sult  to  her  name. 

But  such  is  life.  Men  and  women  are  unwittingly 
their  own  executioners  and  the  executioners  of  those 
they  love. 


V. 

An  hour  passed,  and  then  Galbraith  and  Pierre 
appeared.  Jen  noticed  that  her  father  went  over  to 
Sergeant  Tom  and  rather  anxiously  felt  his  pulse. 
Once  in  the  night  the  old  man  had  come  down  and 
done  the  same  thing.  Pierre  said  something  in  an 
undertone.  Did  they  think  he  was  ill  ?  That  was 
Jen’s  thought.  She  watched  them  closely ;  but  the 
half-breed  knew  that  she  was  watching,  and  the  two 
said  nothing  more  to  each  other.  But  Pierre  said, 
in  a  careless  way  :  “  It  is  good  he  have  that  sleep. 
He  was  played  out,  quite.” 

Jen  replied,  a  secret  triumph  at  her  heart :  “  But 
what  about  his  orders,  the  papers  he  was  to  carry  to 
Archangel’s  Rise  ?  What  about  his  being  back  at 
Fort  Desire  in  the  time  given  him  ?  ” 

“  It  is  not  much  matter  about  the  papers.  The 
poor  devil  that  Inspector  Jules  would  arrest — well,  he 
will  get  off,  perhaps,  but  that  does  no  one  harm.  Eh, 
Galbraith  ?  The  law  is  sometimes  unkind.  And  as 
for  obeying  orders,  why,  the  prairie  is  wide,  it  is  a  hard 
ride,  horses  go  wrong ; — a  little  tale  of  trouble  to  In¬ 
spector  Jules,  another  at  Fort  Desire,  and  who  is  to 


io6  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

know  except  Pete  Galbraith,  Jen  Galbraith,  and 
Pierre  ?  Poor  Sergeant  Tom.  It  was  good  he  sleep 
so.” 

Jen  felt  the‘re  was  irony  behind  the  smooth  words 
of  the  gambler.  He  had  a  habit  of  saying  things,  as 
they  express  it  in  that  country,  between  his  teeth. 
That  signifies  what  is  animal-like  and  cruel.  Gal¬ 
braith  stood  silent  during  Pierre’s  remarks,  but, 
when  he  had  finished,  said  : 

“  Yes,  it’s  all  right  if  he  doesn’t  sleep  too  long ; 
but  there’s  the  trouble — too  long  !  ” 

Pierre  frowned  a  warning,  and  then  added,  with 
unconcern :  “  I  remember  when  you  sleep  thirty 
hours,  Galbraith — after  the  prairie  fire,  three  years 
ago,  eh  !  ” 

“  Well,  that’s  so  ;  that’s  so  as  you  say  it.  We’ll 
let  him  sleep  till  noon,  or  longer — or  longer,  won’t 
we,  Pierre  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  till  noon  is  good,  or  longer.” 

“  But  he  shall  not  sleep  longer  if  I  can  wake  him,” 
said  Jen.  “  You  do  not  think  of  the  trouble  all  this 
sleeping  may  make  for  him.” 

“  But  then — but  then,  there  is  the  trouble  he  will 
make  for  others,  if  he  wakes.  Think  :  a  poor  devil 
trying  to  escape  the  law  !  ” 

“  But  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  that,  and  justice 
is  justice,  Pierre.” 

“  Eh,  well,  perhaps,  perhaps.” 

Galbraith  was  silent. 

Jen  felt  that  so  far  as  Sergeant  Tom’s  papers  were 
concerned  he  was  safe ;  but  she  felt  also  that  by 
noon  he  ought  to  be  on  his  way  back  to  Fort  Desire 
— after  she  had  told  him  what  she  had  done.  She 
was  anxious  for  his  honor.  That  her  lover  shall 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHE  FROM 


107 

appear  well  before  the  world,  is  a  thing  deep  in  the 
heart  of  every  woman.  It  is  a  pride  for  which  she 
will  deny  herself,  even  of  the  presence  of  that  lover. 
“  Till  noon,”  Jen  said,  “and  then  he  must  go.” 


VI. 

Jen  watched  to  see  if  her  father  or  Pierre  would 
notice  that  the  horse  was  changed,  had  been  traveled 
during  the  night,  or  that  it  was  a  different  one  alto- 
'  gether.  As  the  morning  wore  away  she  saw  that 
they  did  not  notice  the  fact.  This  ignorance  was 
perhaps  owing  largely  to  the  appearance  of  several 
ranchmen  from  near  the  American  border.  They 
spent  their  time  in  the  bar-room,  and  when  they  left 
it  was  nearly  noon.  Still  Sergeant  Tom  slept.  Jen 
now  went  to  him  and  tried  to  wake  him.  She  lifted 
him  to  a  sitting  position,  but  his  head  fell  on  her 
shoulder.  Disheartened,  she  laid  him  down  again. 
But  now  at  last  an  undefined  suspicion  began  to 
take  possession  of  her.  It  made  her  uneasy ;  it  filled 
her  with  a  vague  sense  of  alarm.  Was  this  sleep 
natural  ?  She  remembered  that,  when  her  father 
and  others  had  slept  so  long  after  the  prairie  fire, 
she  had  waked  them  once  to  give  them  drink  and  a 
little  food,  and  they  did  not  breathe  so  heavily  as  he 
was  doing.  Yet  what  could  be  done  ?  What  was 
the  matter  ?  There  was  not  a  doctor  nearer  than  a 
hundred  miles.  She  thought  of  bleeding, — the  old- 
fashioned  remedy  still  used  on  the  prairies — but  she 
decided  to  wait  a  little.  Somehow  she  felt  that  she 
would  receive  no  help  from  her  father  or  Pierre. 
Had  they  anything  to  do  with  this  sleep  ?  Was  it 


lo8  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

connected  with  the  papers?  No,  not  that,  for  they 
had  not  sought  to  take  them,  and  had  not  made  any 
remark  about  their  being  gone.  This  showed  their 
unconcern  on  that  point.  She  could  not  fathom  the 
mystery,  but  the  suspicion  of  something  irregular 
deepened.  Her  father  could  have  no  reason  for 
injuring  Sergeant  Tom  ;  but  Pretty  Pierre — that  was 
another  matter  !  Yet  she  remembered  too  that  her 
father  had  appeared  the  more  anxious  of  the  two 
about  the  Sergeant’s  sleep.  She  recalled  that  he 
said  :  “  Yes,  it’s  all  right,  if  he  doesn’t  sleep  too 
long,” 

But  Pierre  could  play  a  part,  she  knew,  and  could 
involve  others  in  trouble,  and  escape  himself.  He 
was  a  man  with  a  reputation  for  occasional  wicked¬ 
nesses  of  a  naked,  decided  type.  She  knew  that  he 
was  possessed  of  a  devil,  of  a  very  reserved  devil, 
but  liable  to  bold  action  on  occasions.  She  knew 
that  he  valued  the  chances  of  life  or  death  no  more 
than  he  valued  the  thousand  and  one  other  chances 
of  small  importance,  which  occur  in  daily  experience. 
It  was  his  creed  that  one  doesn’t  go  till  the  game  is 
done  and  all  the  cards  are  played.  He  had  a  stoic 
indifference  to  events. 

He  might  be  capable  of  poisoning  !  ah, 

that  thought !  of  poisoning  Sergeant  Tom  for  some 
cause — but  her  father  ?  The  two  seemed  to  act 
alike  in  the  matter.  Could  her  father  approve  of 
any  harm  happening  to  Tom  ?  She  thought  of  the 
meal  he  had  eaten,  of  the  coffee  he  had  drunk — the 
coffee  !  Was  that  the  key  ?  But  she  said  to  herself 
that  she  was  foolish,  that  her  love  had  made  her  so. 
No,  it  could  not  be. 

But  a  fear  grew  upon  her,  strive  as  she  would 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON. 


log 


against  it.  She  waited  silently  and  watched,  and 
twice  or  thrice  made  ineffectual  efforts  to  rouse  him. 
Her  father  came  in  once.  He  showed  anxiety ;  that 
was  unmistakable,  but  was  it  the  anxiety  of  guilt  of 
any  kind  ?  She  said  nothing.  At  five  o’clock 
matters  abruptly  came  to  a  climax.  Jen  was  in  the 
kitchen,  but,  hearing  footsteps  in  the  sitting-room 
she  opened  the  door  quietly.  Her  father  was  bend¬ 
ing  over  Sergeant  Tom,  and  Pierre  was  speaking: 
“  No,  no,  Galbraith,  it  is  all  right.  You  are  a  fool. 
It  could  not  kill  him.” 

“  Kill  him — kill  him,”  she  repeated,  gaspingly  to 
herself. 

“  You  see  he  was  exhausted;  he  may  sleep  for 
hours  yet.  Yes,  he  is  safe,  I  think.” 

“  But  Jen,  she  suspects  something,  she - ” 

“  Hush  !  ”  said  Pretty  Pierre.  He  saw  her  stand¬ 
ing  near.  She  had  glided  forward  and  stood  with 
flashing  eyes  turned,  now  upon  the  one  and  now 
upon  the  other.  Finally  they  rested  on  Galbraith. 

“Tell  me  what  you  have  done  to  him  ;  what  you 
and  Pretty  Pierre  have  done  to  him.  You  have  some 
secret.  I  will  know.”  She  leaned  forward,  some¬ 
thing  of  the  tigress  in  the  poise  of  her  body.  “  I 
tell  you,  I  will  know.”  Her  voice  was  low,  and  it 
vibrated  with  fierceness  and  determination.  Her 
e3'es  glowed  like  two  stars,  and  her  fine  nostrils 
trembled  with  disdain  and  indignation.  As  they 
drew  back, — the  old  man  sullenly,  the  gambler  with 
a  slight  gesture  of  impatience, — she  came  a  step 
nearer  to  them  and  waited,  the  cords  of  her  shapely 
throat  swelling  with  excitement.  A  moment  so,  and 
then  she  said  in  a  tone  that  suggested  menace, 
determination  : 


no 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  You  have  poisoned  him.  Tell  me  the  truth. 
Do  you  hear,  father — the  truth,  or  I  will  hate  you. 
I  will  make  you  repent  it  till  you  die.” 

“  But - ”  Pierre  began. 

She  interrupted  him.  “  Do  not  speak,  Pretty 
Pierre.  You  are  a  devil.  You  will  lie.  Father 
— — !  ”  She  waited. 

“  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you,  Jen  ?  ” 

“  What  difference  —  what  difference  to  me  —  that 
you  should  be  a  murderer  !  ” 

“  But  that  is  not  so,  that  is  a  dream  of  yours,  Jen 
Galbraith,”  said  Pierre. 

She  turned  to  her  father  again.  “  Father,  will 
you  tell  the  truth  to  me  ?  I  warn  you  it  will  be 
better  for  you  both.” 

The  old  man’s  brow  was  sullen,  and  his  lips  were 
twitching  nervously.  “  You  care  more  for  him  than 
you  do  for  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  Jen.  There’s 
nothing  to  get  mad  about  like  that.  I’ll  tell  you 
when  he’s  gone.  .  .  .  Let’s — let’s  wake  him,”  he 
added,  nervously. 

He  stooped  down  and  lifted  the  sleeping  man  to 
a  sitting  posture.  Pierre  assisted  him. 

Jen  saw  that  the  half-breed  believed  Sergeant  Tom 
could  be  wakened,  and  her  fear  diminished  slightly, 
if  her  indignation  did  not.  They  lifted  the  soldier 
to  his  feet.  Pierre  pressed  the  point  of  a  pin  deep 
into  his  arm.  Jen  started  forward,  woman-like,  to 
check  the  action,  but  drew  back,  for  she  saw  heroic 
measures  might  be  necessary  to  bring  him  to  con¬ 
sciousness.  But,  nevertheless,  her  anger  broke 
bounds,  and  she  said :  “  Cowards — cowards  !  What 
spite  made  you  do  this  ?  ” 

“  Damnation,  Jen,”  said  the  father,  “  you’ll  hector 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON. 


Ill 


me  till  I  make  you  sorry.  What’s  this  Irish  police¬ 
man  to  you  ?  What’s  he  beside  your  own  flesh  and 
blood,  I  say  again.” 

“  Why  does  my  own  flesh  and  blood  do  such 
wicked  tricks  to  an  Irish  soldier  ?  Why  does  it  give 
poison  to  an  Irish  soldier  ?  ” 

“Poison,  Jen?  You  needn’t  speak  so  ghost-like. 
It  was  only  a  dose  of  laudanum  ;  not  enough  to  kill 
him.  Ask  Pierre.” 

Inwardly  she  believed  him,  and  said  a  Thank-God 
to  herself,  but  to  the  half-breed  she  remarked : 
“Yes,  ask  Pierre! — you  are  behind  all  this.  It  is 
some  evil  scheme  of  yours.  Why  did  you  do  it  ? 
Tell  the  truth  for  once.”  Her  eyes  swam  angrily 
with  Pierre’s. 

Pierre  was  complacent ;  he  admired  her  wild  at¬ 
tacks.  He  smiled,  and  replied  :  “  My  dear,  it  was  a 
whim  of  mine ;  but  you  need  not  tell  him.,  all  the 
same,  when  he  wakes.  You  see  this  is  your  father’s 
house,  though  the  whim  is  mine.  But  look :  he  is 
waking — the  pin  is  good.  Some  cold  water,  quick  !  ” 

The  cold  water  was  brought  and  dashed  into  the 
face  of  the  soldier.  He  showed  signs  of  returning 
consciousness.  The  effect  of  the  laudanum  had 
been  intensified  by  the  thoroughly  exhausted  con¬ 
dition  of  the  body.  But  the  man  was  perfectly 
healthy,  and  this  helped  to  resist  the  danger  of  a 
fatal  result. 

Pierre  kept  up  an  intermittent  speech.  “Yes,  it 
was  a  mere  whim  of  mine.  Eh,  he  will  think  he  has 
been  an  ass  to  sleep  so  long,  and  on  duty,  and 
orders  to  carry  to  Archangel’s  Rise  1  ”  Here  he 
showed  his  teeth  again,  white  and  regular  like  a 
dog’s.  That  was  the  impression  they  gave,  his  lips 


1 12 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


were  so  red,  and  the  contrast  was  so  great.  One 
almost  expected  to  find  that  the  roof  of  his  mouth 
was  black,  like  that  of  a  well-bred  hound;  but 
there  is  no  evidence  available  on  the  point. 

“There,  that  is  good,”  he  said.  “Now  set  him 
down,  Pete  Galbraith.  Yes— so,  so !  Sergeant  Tom  ! 
Ah,  you  will  wake  well,  soon.  Now,  the  eyes  a  little 
wider.  Good.  Eh,  Sergeant  Tom,  what  is  the 
matter  !  It  is  breakfast  time — quite.” 

Sergeant  Tom’s  eyes  opened  slowly  and  looked 
dazedly  before  him  for  a  minute.  Then  they  fell  on 
Pierre.  At  first  there  was  no  recognition,  then  they 
became  consciously  clearer.  He  said,  “  Pretty 
Pierre,  you  here  in  the  barracks  !  ”  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  head,  then  rubbed  his  eyes  roughly  and 
looked  up  again.  This  time  he  saw  Jen  and  her 
father.  His  bewilderment  increased.  Then  he 
added  :  “  What  is  the  matter  ?  Have  I  been  asleep  ? 

What - !  ”  He  remembered.  He  staggered  to  his 

feet  and  felt  his  pockets  quickly  and  anxiously  for 
his  letter.  It  was  gone. 

“  The  letter  !  ”  he  said.  “  My  orders  !  Who  has 
robbed  me  ?  Faith,  I  remember.  I  could  n’t  kape 
awake  after  I  drank  the  coffee.  My  papers  are  gone, 
I  tell  you,  Galbraith !  ”  he  said  fiercely. 

Then  he  turned  to  Jen  :  “You  are  not  in  this,  Jen  ? 
Tell  me.” 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  was  about  to 
answer,  when  he  turned  to  the  gambler  and  said  : 
“You  are  at  the  bottom  of  this.  Give  me  my 
papers.” 

But  Pierre  and  Galbraith  were  as  dumfounded  as 
the  Sergeant  himself  to  know  that  the  letter  was 
gone.  They  were  stunned  beyond  speech  when  Jen 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHE  FROM 


1 13 

said,  flushing  :  “No,  Sergeant  Tom,  /am  the  thief. 
When  I  could  not  wake  you,  I  took  the  letter  from 
your  pocket  and  carried  it  to  Inspector  Jules  last 
night, — or,  rather.  Sergeant  Gellatly  carried  them. 
I  wore  his  cap  and  cloak  and  passed  for  him.” 

“You  carried  that  letter  to  Inspector  Jules  last 
night,  Jen  ?  ”  said  the  soldier,  all  his  heart  in  his 
voice. 

Jen  saw  her  father  blanch,  his  mouth  open  blankly, 
and  his  lips  refuse  to  utter  the  words  on  them.  For 
the  first  time  she  comprehended  some  danger  to 
him,  to  herself — to  Val  !  “Father,  father,”  she  said, 
— “  what  is  it  ?  ” 

Pierre  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  rejoined : 
“  Eh,  the  devil  !  Such  mistakes  of  women.  They 
are  fools — all.” 

The  old  man  put  out  a  shaking  hand  and  caught 
his  daughter’s  arm.  His  look  was  of  mingled  wonder 
and  despair,  as  he  said,  in  a  gasping  whisper  :  “You 
carried  that  letter  to  Archangel’s  Rise  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  she  answered,  faltering  now;  “Sergeant 
Tom  had  said  how  important  it  was,  you  remember. 
That  it  was  his  duty  to  take  it  to  Inspector  Jules, 
and  be  back  within  forty-eight  hours.  He  fell  asleep. 
I  could  not  wake  him.  I  thought,  what  if  he  were 
my  brother — our  Val.  So,  when  you  and  Pretty  Pierre 
went  to  bed,  I  put  on  Val’s  clothes,  took  Sergeant 
Tom’s  cloak  and  hat,  carried  the  orders  to  Jules, 
and  was  back  here  by  six  o’clock  this  morning.” 

Sergeant  Tom’s  eyes  told  his  tale  of  gratitude. 
He  made  a  step  towards  her ;  but  the  old  man,  with 
a  strange  ferocity,  motioned  him  back,  saying  : 

“  Go  away  from  this  house.  Go  quick.  Go  now, 

I  tell  you,  or  by  God, — I’ll - ” 

S 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


I14 

Here  Pretty  Pierre  touched  his  arm. 

Sergeant  Tom  drew  back,  not  because  he  feared, 
but  as  if  to  get  a  mental  perspective  of  the  situa¬ 
tion. 

Galbraith  again  said  to  his  daughter  :  “  Jen,  you 

carried  them  papers  ?  You  !  for  him — for  the 
Law  !  ”  Then  he  turned  from  her,  and  with  hand 
clenched  and  teeth  set  spoke  to  the  soldier  : 
“  Haven’t  you  heard  enough  ?  Curse  you — why 
don’t  you  go  ?  ” 

Sergeant  Tom  replied  coolly :  “  Not  so  fast,  Gal¬ 
braith.  There’s  some  mystery  in  all  this.  There’s 
my  sleep  to  be  accounted  for  yet.  You  had  some 
reason,  some  ” — he  caught  the  eyes  of  Pierre.  He 
paused.  A  light  began  to  dawn  on  his  mind,  and 
he  looked  at  Jen,  who  stood  rigidly  pale,  her  eyes 
fixed  fearfully,  anxiously,  upon  him.  She  too  was 
beginning  to  frame  in  her  mind  a  possible  horror ; 
the  thing  that  had  so  changed  her  father,  the  cause 
for  drugging  the  soldier.  There  was  a  silence  in 
which  Pierre  first,  and  then  all,  detected  the  sound 
of  horses’  hoofs.  Pierre  went  to  the  door  and 
looked  out.  He  turned  round  again,  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders  with  an  expression  of  helplessness. 
But  as  he  saw  Jen  was  about  to  speak,  and  Sergeant 
Tom  to  move  towards  the  door,  he  put  up  his  hand 
to  stay  them  both,  and  said  :  “  A  little — wait !  ” 

Then  all  were  silent.  Jen’s  fingers  nervously 
clasped  and  unclasped,  and  her  eyes  were  strained 
towards  the  door.  Sergeant  Tom  stood  watching  her 
pityingly ;  the  old  man’s  head  was  bowed.  The 
sound  of  galloping  grew  plainer.  It  stopped.  An 
instant  and  then  three  horsemen  appeared  before 
the  door.  One  was  Inspector  Jules,  one  was  Private 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEER  OAT.  115 

Waugh,  and  the  other  between  them  was — let  Jen  tell 
who  he  was.  With  an  agonized  cry  she  rushed 
from  the  house  and  threw  herself  against  the  saddle, 
and  with  her  arms  about  the  prisoner,  cried  : 

“  Oh,  Val,  Val,  it  was  you.  It  was  you  they  were 
after.  It  was  you  that — oh,  no,  no,  no !  My  poor 
Val,  and  I  can’t  tell  you — I  can’t  tell  you  !  ” 

Great  as  was  her  grief  and  self-reproach,  she  felt 
it  would  be  cruel  to  tell  him  the  part  she  had  taken 
m  placing  him  in  this  position.  She  hated  herself, 
hut  why  deepen  his  misery  ?  His  face  was  pale,  but 
it  had  its  old,  open,  fearless  look  which  dissipation 
had  not  greatly  marred.  His  eyelids  quivered,  but 
he  smiled,  and  touching  her  with  his  steel-bound 
hands,  gently  said  : 

“  Never  mind,  Jen.  It  isn’t  so  bad.  You  see  it 
was  this  way  :  Snow  Devil  said  something  about 
some  one  that  belonged  to  me,  that  cares  more 
about  me  than  I  deserve.  IVeH,  he  died  suddeji,  and 
I  was  there  at  the  time.  That’s  all.  I  was  trying 
with  the  help  of  Pretty  Pierre  to  get  out  of  the  coun¬ 
try  ” — and  he  waved  his  hand  towards  the  half- 
breed. 

“  With  Pretty  Pierre — Pierre  ?  ”  she  said. 

“Yes,  he  isn’t  all  gambler.  But  they  were  too 
quick  for  me,  and  here  I  am.  Jules  is  a  hustler  on 
the  march.  But  he  said  he’d  stop  here  and  let  me 
see  you  and  dad  as  we  go  up  to  Fort  Desire,  and 
— there,  don’t  mind.  Sis — don’t  mind  it  so  !  ” 

Her  sobs  had  ceased,  but  she  clung  to  him  as  if 
she  could  never  let  him  go.  Her  father  stood  near 
her,  all  the  lines  in  his  face  deepened  into  bitterness. 
To  him  Val  said:  “Why,  dad,  what’s  the  matter.? 
Your  hand  is  shaky.  Don’t  you  get  this  thing  eatin’ 


Il6  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

at  your  heart.  It  isn’t  worth  it.  That  Injin  would 
have  died  if  you’d  been  in  my  place,  I  guess.  Be¬ 
tween  you  and  me,  I  expect  to  give  Jules  the  slip 
before  we  get  there.”  And  he  laughed  at  the  In¬ 
spector  who  laughed  a  little  austerely  too,  and  in  his 
heart  wished  that  it  was  any  one  else  he  had  as  a 
prisoner  than  Val  Galbraith,  who  was  a  favorite 
with  the  Riders  of  the  Plains. 

Sergeant  Tom  had  been  standing  in  the  doorway 
regarding  this  scene,  and  working  out  in  his  mind 
the  complications  that  had  led  to  it.  At  this  point 
he  came  forward,  and  Inspector  Jules  said  to  him, 
after  a  curt  salutation  : 

“  You  were  in  a  hurry  last  night.  Sergeant  Gellatly. 
You  don’t  seem  so  pushed  for  time  now.  Usual 
thing.  When  a  man  seems  over-zealous — drink, 
cards,  or  women  behind  it.  But  your  taste  is  good, 
even  if,  under  present  circumstances  ” — He  stopped, 
for  he  saw  a  threatening  look  in  the  eyes  of  the 
other,  and  that  other  said  :  “  We  won’t  discuss  that 
matter.  Inspector,  if  you  please.  I’m  going  on  to 
Fort  Desire  now.  I  couldn’t  have  seen  you  if  I’d 
wanted  to  last  night.” 

“  That’s  nonsense.  If  you  had  waited  one 
minute  longer  at  the  barracks  you  could  have  done 
so.  I  called  to  you  as  you  were  leaving,  but  you 
didn’t  turn  back.” 

“  No.  I  didn’t  hear  you.” 

All  were  listening  to  this  conversation,  and  none 
more  curiously  than  Private  Waugh.  Many  a  time 
in  days  to  come  he  pictured  the  scene  for  the  benefit 
of  his  comrades.  Pretty  Pierre,  leaning  against  the 
hitching-post  near  the  bar-room,  said  languidly  : 
“  But,  Inspector,  he  speaks  the  truth — quite  :  that  is 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON. 


I17 

a  virtue  of  the  Riders  of  the  Plains,”  Val  had  his 
eyes  on  the  half-breed,  and  a  look  of  understanding 
passed  between  them.  While  Val  and  his  father 
and  sister  were  saying  their  farewells  in  few  words, 
but  with  homely  demonstrations.  Sergeant  Tom 
brought  his  horse  round  and  mounted  it.  Inspector 
Jules  gave  the  word  to  move  on.  As  they  started, 
Gellatly,  who  fell  behind  the  others  slightly,  leaned 
down  and  whispered :  “  Forgive  me,  Jen.  You  did 
a  noble  act  for  me,  and  the  life  of  me  would  prove 
to  you  that  I’m  grateful.  It’s  sorry,  sorry  I  am.  But 
I’ll  do  what  I  can  for  Val,  as  sure  as  the  heart’s  in 
me.  Good-bye,  Jen.” 

She  looked  up  with  a  faint  hope  in  her  eyes. 
“  Good-bye  !”  she  said.  “I  believe  you  .  .  .  Good¬ 
bye  !  ” 

In  a  few  minutes  there  was  only  a  cloud  of  dust  on 
the  prairie  to  tell  where  the  Law  and  its  quarry 
were.  And  of  those  left  behind,  one  was  a  broken- 
spirited  old  man  with  sorrow  melting  away  the 
sinister  look  in  his  face  ;  one,  a  girl  hovering  between 
the  tempest  of  bitterness  and  a  storm  of  self-reproach  ; 
and  one  a  half-breed  gambler,  who  again  sat  on  the 
bar-counter  smoking  a  cigarette  and  singing  to  him¬ 
self,  as  indolently  as  if  he  were  not  in  the  presence 
of  a  painful  drama  of  life,  perhaps  a  tragedy.  But 
was  the  song  so  pointless  to  the  occasion,  after  all  ? 
and  was  the  man  so  abstracted  and  indifferent  as  he 
seemed  t  For  thus  the  song  ran  ; 

“  Oh,  the  bird  in  a  cage  and  the  bird  on  a  tree— 

Voilh  !  ’tis  a  different  fear  ! 

The  maiden  weeps  and  she  bends  the  knee — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear  ! 


Il8  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

But  the  bird  in  a  cage  has  a  friend  in  the  tree, 
And  the  maiden  she  dries  her  tear : 

And  the  night  is  dark  and  no  moon  you  see — 
Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear  ! 

When  the  doors  are  open  the  bird  is  free — 
Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hear  1  ” 


VII. 

These  words  kept  ringing  in  Jen’s  ears  as  she 
stood  again  in  the  doorway  that  night  with  her  face 
turned  to  the  beacon.  How  different  it  seemed  now  ! 
When  she  saw  it  last  night  it  was  a  cheerful  spirit  of 
light — a  something  suggesting  comfort,  companion- 
sWp,  aspiration,  a  friend  to  the  traveler,  and  a  mys¬ 
terious,  but  delightful,  association.  In  the  morning 
when  she  returned  from  that  fortunate,  yet  most 
unfortunate,  ride,  it  was  still  burning,  but  its  warm 
flame  was  exhausted  in  the  glow  of  the  life-giving 
sun  ;  the  dream  and  delight  of  the  night  robbed  of 
its  glamour  by  the  garish  morning ;  like  her  own 
body,  its  task  done,  sinking  before  the  unrelieved 
scrutiny  of  the  day.  To-night  it  burned  with  a 
different  radiance.  It  came  in  fiery  palpitations 
from  the  earth.  It  made  a  sound  that  was  now  like 
the  moan  of  pine  trees,  now  like  the  rumble  of  far- 
off  artillery.  The  slight  wind  that  blew  spread  the 
topmost  crest  of  flame  into  strands  of  ruddy  hair, 
and  looking  at  it,  Jen  saw  herself  rocked  to  and  fro 
by  tumultuous  emotions,  yet  fuller  of  strength  and 
larger  of  life  than  ever  she  had  been.  Her  hot  veins 
beat  with  determination,  with  a  love  which  she  drove 
back  by  another,  cherished  now  more  than  it  had  ever 
been,  because  danger  threatened  the  boy  to  whom  she 


SHE  OF  TFIE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON.  119 

had  been  as  a  mother.  In  twenty-four  hours  she  had 
grown  to  the  full  stature  of  love  and  suffering. 

There  were  shadows  that  betrayed  less  round¬ 
ness  to  her  face  ;  there  were  lines  that  told  of  weari¬ 
ness  ;  but  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  glowing  light  of 
hope.  She  raised  her  face  to  the  stars  and  uncon¬ 
sciously  paraphrasing  Pierre’s  song  said  ;  “  Oh,  the 
God  that  dost  save  us,  hear  !  ” 

A  hand  touched  her  arm,  and  a  voice  said, 
huskily :  “  Jen,  I  wanted  to  save  him  and — and  not 
let  you  know  of  it ;  that’s  all.  You’re  not  keepin’  a 
grudge  agin  me,  my  girl  ?  ” 

She  did  not  move  nor  turn  her  head.  “  I’ve  no 
grudge,  father ;  but — if — if  you  had  told  me, 
’twouldn’t  be  on  my  mind  that  I  had  made  it  worse 
for  Val.” 

The  kindness  in  the  voice  reassured  him,  and  he 
ventured  to  say  :  “  I  didn’t  think  you’d  be  carin’  for 
one  of  the  Riders  of  the  Plains,  Jen.” 

Then  the  old  man  trembled  lest  she  should  resent 
his  words.  She  seemed  about  to  do  so,  but  the  flush 
faded  from  her  brow,  and  she  said,  simply  :  “  I  care 
for  Val  most — father.  But  he  didn’t  know  he  was 
getting  Val  into  trouble.” 

She  suddenly  quivered  as  a  wave  of  emotion 
passed  through  her  ;  and  she  said,  with  a  sob  in  her 
voice  :  “  Oh,  it’s  all  scrub  country,  father,  and  no 
paths,  and — and  I  wish  I  had  a  mother  !  ” 

The  old  man  sat  down  in  the  doorway  and  bowed 
his  gray  head  in  his  arms.  Then,  after  a  moment, 
he  whispered : 

“  She’s  been  dead  twenty-two  years,  Jen.  The 
day  Val  was  born  she  went  away.  I’d  a-been  a 
better  man  if  she’d  a-lived,  Jen  ;  and  abetter  father.” 


120 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


This  was  an  unusual  demonstration  between  these 
two.  She  watched  him  sadly  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  leaning  over  and  touching  him  gently  on  the 
shoulder,  said  :  “  It’s  worse  for  you  than  it  is  for  me, 
father.  Don’t  feel  so  bad.  Perhaps  we  shall  save 
him  yet.” 

He  caught  a  gleam  of  hope  in  her  words  :  “  Mebbe, 
Jen,  mebbe  !  ”  and  he  raised  his  face  to  the  light. 

This  ritual  of  affection  was  crude  and  unadorned  ; 
but  it  was  real.  They  sat  there  for  half-an-hour, 
silent.  Then  a  figure  came  out  of  the  shadows 
behind  the  house  and  stood  before  them.  It  was 
Pierre. 

“  I  go  to-morrow  morning,  Galbraith,”  he  said. 

The  old  man  nodded,  but  did  not  reply. 

“  I  go  to  Fort  Desire,”  the  gambler  added. 

Jen  faced  him.  “  What  do  you  go  there  for, 
Pretty  Pierre  ?  ” 

“  It  is  my  whim.  Besides,  there  is  Val.  He 
might  want  a  horse  some  dark  night.” 

“  Pierre,  do  you  mean  that  ?  ” 

“  As  much  as  Sergeant  Tom  means  what  he  says. 
Every  man  has  his  friends.  Pretty  Pierre  has  a 
fancy  for  Val  Galbraith — a  little.  It  suits  him  to  go 
to  Fort  Desire.  Jen  Galbraith,  you  made  a  grand 
ride  last  night.  You  did  a  bold  thing — all  for  a 
man.  We  shall  see  what  he  will  do  for  you.  And 
if  he  does  nothing — ah  !  you  can  trust  the  tongue  of 
Pretty  Pierre.  He  will  wish  he  could  die,  instead 
of - Eh,  bmi.,  good-night !  ” 

He  moved  away.  Jen  followed  him.  She  held 
out  her  hand.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
done  so  with  this  man. 

“  I  believe  you,”  she  said. 


“  I  believe  that  you 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON. 


J2l 


mean  well  to  our  Val.  I  am  sorry  that  I  called  you 
a  devil.” 

He  smiled.  “  Jen  Galbraith,  that  is  nothing. 
You  spoke  true.  But  devils  have  their  friends — and 
their  whims.  So  you  see,  good-night.” 

“Mebbe  it  will  come  out  all  right,  Jen — mebbe!” 
said  the  old  man. 

But  Jen  did  not  reply.  She  was  thinking  hard, 
her  eyes  upon  the  Prairie  Star.  Living  life  to  the 
hilt  greatly  illumines  the  outlook  of  the  mind.  She 
was  beginning  to  understand  that  evil  is  not  absolute 
and  that  good  is  often  an  occasion  more  than  a 
condition. 

There  was  a  long  silence  again.  At  last  the  old 
man  rose  to  go  and  reduce  the  volume  of  flame  for 
the  night ;  but  Jen  stopped  him.  “  No,  father,  let 
it  burn  all  it  can  to-night.  It’s  comforting.” 

“  Mebbe  so — mebbe  !  ”  he  said. 

A  faint  refrain  came  to  them  from  within  the 
house : 

“  When  doors  are  open  the  bird  is  free — 

Oh,  the  sweet  Saint  Gabrielle  hearl” 


VIII. 

It  was  a  lovely  morning.  The  prairie  billowed 
away  endlessly  to  the  south,  and  heaved  away  in 
vastness  to  the  north  ;  and  the  fresh,  sharp  air  sent 
the  blood  beating  through  the  veins.  In  the  bar¬ 
room  some  early  traveler  was  talking  to  Peter 
Galbraith.  A  wandering  band  of  Indians  was 
camped  about  a  mile  away,  the  only  sign  of  human¬ 
ity  in  the  waste.  Jen  sat  in  the  doorway  culling 


122 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPIE. 


dried  apples.  Though  tragedies  occur  in  lives  of 
the  humble,  they  must  still  do  the  dull  and  ordinary 
task.  They  cannot  stop  to  cherish  morbidness,  to 
feed  upon  their  sorrow  ;  they  must  care  for  them¬ 
selves  and  labor  for  others.  And  well  is  it  for  them 
that  it  is  so. 

The  Indian  camp  brings  unpleasant  memories  to 
Jen’s  mind.  She  knows  it  belongs  to  old  Sun-in-the- 
North,  and  that  he  will  not  come  to  see  her  now, 
nor  could  she,  or  would  she,  go  to  him.  Between 
her  and  that  race  there  can  never  again  be  kindly 
communion.  And  now  she  sees,  for  the  first  time,  two 
horsemen  riding  slowly  in  the  track  from  Fort  Desire 
towards  Galbraith’s  Place.  She  notices  that  one 
sits  upright,  and  one  seems  leaning  forward  on  his 
horse’s  neck.  She  shades  her  eyes  with  her  hand, 
but  she  cannot  distinguish  who  they  are.  But  she 
has  seen  men  tied  to  their  horses  ride  as  that  man 
is  riding,  when  stricken  with  fever,  bruised  by  fall¬ 
ing  timber,  lacerated  by  a  grizzly,  wounded  by  a 
bullet,  or  crushed  by  a  herd  of  bulfaloes.  She 
remembered  at  that  moment  the  time  that  a  horse 
had  struck  Val  with  its  forefeet,  and  torn  the  flesh 
from  his  chest,  and  how  he  had  been  brought 
home  tied  to  a  broncho’s  back. 

The  thought  of  this  drove  her  into  the  house,  to 
have  Val’s  bed  prepared  for  the  sufferer,  whoever  he 
was.  Almost  unconsciously  she  put  on  the  little 
table  beside  the  bed  a  bunch  of  everlasting  prairie 
flowers,  and  shaded  the  light  to  the  point  of  quiet 
and  comfort. 

Then  she  went  outside  again.  The  travelers 
now  were  not  far  away.  She  recognized  the  upright 
rider.  It  was  Pretty  Pierre.  The  other — she  could 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON. 


123 


not  tell.  She  called  to  her  father.  She  had  a  feat 
which  she  did  not  care  to  face  alone.  See  !  see  I 
father,”  she  said, — Pretty  Pierre  and — and  can  it 
beVal.?”  For  the  moment  she  seemed  unable  to 
stir.  But  the  old  man  shook  his  head,  and  said  : 

“  No,  Jen,  it  can’t  be.  It  isn’t  Val.” 

Then  another  thought  possessed  her.  Her  lips 
trembled,  and,  throwing  her  head  back  as  does  a 
deer  when  it  starts  to  shake  off  its  pursuers  by  flight, 
she  ran  swiftly  towards  the  riders.  The  traveler 
standing  beside  Galbraith  said  :  “  That  man  is  hurt, 
wounded  probably.  I  didn’t  expect  to  have  a 
patient  in  the  middle  of  the  plains.  I’m  a  doctor. 
Perhaps,  I  can  be  of  use  here  ?  ” 

When  a  hundred  yards  away  Jen  recognized  the 
recumbent  rider.  A  thousand  thoughts  flashed 
through  her  brain.  What  had  happened  ?  Why 
was  he  dressed  in  civilian’s  clothes  ?  A  moment, 
and  she  was  at  his  horse’s  head.  Another,  and  her 
warm  hand  clasped  the  pale,  moist  and  wrinkled 
one  which  hung  by  the  horse’s  neck.  PLis  coat  at 
the  shoulder  was  stained  with  blood,  and  there  was 
a  handkerchief  about  his  head.  This — this  was 
Sergeant  Tom  Gellatly ! 

She  looked  up  at  Pierre,  an  agony  of  inquiry  in 
her  eyes,  and  pointing  mutely  to  the  wounded  man. 
Pierre  spoke  with  a  tone  of  seriousness  not  common 
to  his  voice  :  “  You  see,  Jen  Galbraith,  it  was  brave. 
Sergeant  Tom  one  day  resigns  the  Mounted  Police. 
He  leaves  the  Riders  of  the  Plains.  That  is  not 
easy  to  understand,  for  he  is  in  much  favor  with 
the  officers.  But  he  buys  himself  out,  and  there  is 
the  end  of  the  Sergeant  and  his  triple  chevron. 
That  is  one  day.  That  night,  two  men  on  a  ferry 


124 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


are  crossing  the  Saskatchewan  at  Fort  Desire. 
They  are  fired  at  from  the  shore  behind.  One  man 
is  hit  twice.  But  they  get  across,  cut  the  ferry  loose, 
mount  horses,  and  ride  away  together.  The  man 
that  was  hit — yes.  Sergeant  Tom.  The  other  that 
was  not  hit  was  Val  Galbraith.” 

Jen  gave  a  cry  of  mingled  joy  and  pain,  and  said 
with  Tom  Gellatly’s  cold  hand  clasped  to  her 
bosom  :  “  Val,  our  Val,  is  free,  is  safe  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  Val  is  free  and  safe — quite.  The  Riders  of 
the  Plains  could  not  cross  the  river.  It  was  too 
high.  And  so  Tom  Gellatly  and  Val  got  away.  Val 
rides  straight  for  the  American  border,  and  the 
other  rides  here.” 

They  were  now  near  the  house,  but  Jen  said, 
eagerly:  “Goon.  Tell  me  all.” 

“  I  knew  what  had  happened  soon,  and  I  rode 
away,  too,  and  last  night  I  found  Tom  Gellatly  lying 
beside  his  horse  on  the  prairie.  I  have  brought 
him  here  to  you.  You  two  are  even  now,  Jen  Gal¬ 
braith,” 

They  were  at  the  tavern  door.  The  traveler  and 
Pierre  lifted  down  the  wounded  and  unconscious  man, 
and  brought  him  and  laid  him  on  Val  Galbraith’s 
bed.  The  traveler  examined  the  wounds  in  the 
shoulder  and  the  head,  and  said  :  “  The  head  is  all 
right.  If  I  can  get  the  bullet  out  of  the  shoulder 
he’ll  be  safe  enough — in  time,” 

The  surgery  was  skillful  but  rude,  for  proper  instru¬ 
ments  were  not  at  hand ;  and  in  a  few  hours  he, 
whom  we  shall  still  call  Sergeant  Tom,  lay  quietly 
sleeping,  the  horrible  pallor  gone  from  his  face  and 
the  feeling  of  death  from  his  hand. 

It  was  near  midnight  when  he  waked,  Jen  was 
sitting  beside  him.  He  looked  round  and  saw  her. 


SHE  OF  THE  TRIPLE  CHEVRON.  125 

Her  face  was  touched  with  the  light  that  shone  from 
the  Prairie  Star.  “Jen,”  he  said,  and  held  out  his 
hand. 

She  turned  from  the  window  and  stood  beside  his 
bed.  She  took  his  outstretched  hand.  “  You  are 
better.  Sergeant  Tom  ?  ”  she  said,  gently. 

“Yes,  I’m  better  ;  but  it’s  not  Sergeant  Tom  I  am 
any  longer,  Jen.” 

“  I  forgot  that.” 

“  I  owed  you  a  great  debt,  Jen.  I  couldn’t  remain 
one  of  the  Riders  of  the  Plains  and  try  to  pay  it.  I 
left  them.  Then  I  tried  to  save  Val,  and  I  did.  I 
knew  how  to  do  it  without  getting  any  one  else  into 
trouble.  It  is  well  to  know  the  trick  of  a  lock  and 
the  hour  that  guard  is  changed.  I  had  left,  but  I 
relieved  guard  that  night  just  the  same.  It  was  a  new 
man  on  watch.  It’s  only  a  minute  I  had ;  for  the 
regular  relief  watch  was  almost  at  my  heels.  I  got 
Val  out  just  in  time.  They  discovered  us,  and  we 
had  a  run  for  it.  Pretty  Pierre  has  told  you.  That’s 

right.  Val  is  safe  now - ” 

She  said  in  a  low,  strained  voice,  interrupting  him  : 
“  Did  Val  leave  you  wounded  so  on  the  prairie  ?  ” 
“  Don’t  let  that  ate  at  your  heart.  No,  he  didn’t. 
I  hurried  him  off,  and  he  didn’t  know  how  bad  I 
was  hit.  But  I — I’ve  paid  my  debt,  haven’t  I,  Jen  ?  ” 
With  eyes  that  could  not  see  for  tears  she  touched 
pityingly,  lovingly,  the  wounds  on  his  head  and 
shoulder,  and  said  :  “  These  pay  a  greater  debt  than 
you  ever  owed  me.  You  risked  your  life  for  me — 
yes,  for  me  !  You  have  given  up  everything  to  do 
it.  I  can’t  pay  you  the  great  difference.  No,  never  !  ” 
“  Yes — yes,  you  can,  if  you  will,  Jen.  It’s  as  aisy  ! 
If  you’ll  say  what  I  say.  I’ll  give  you  quit  of  that 
difference,  as  you  call  it,  forever  and  ever.” 


126 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  First,  tell  me  :  is  Val  quite,  quite  safe  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  Jen,  he’s  safe  over  the  border  by  this  time  ; 
and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  the  Riders  of  the  Plains 
wouldn’t  be  dyin’  to  arrest  him  again  if  he  was  in 
Canada,  which  he  isn’t.  It’s  little  they  wanted  to 
fire  at  us,  I  know,  when  we  were  crossin’  the  river, 
but  it  had  to  be  done,  you  see,  and  us  within  sight. 
Will  you  say  what  I  ask  you,  Jen  ?  ” 

She  did  not  speak,  but  pressed  his  hand  ever  .‘io 
slightly. 

“  Tom  Gellatly,  I  promise,”  he  said. 

“  Tom  Gellatly,  I  promise — ” 

‘‘To  give  you  as  much — ” 

“  To  give  you  as  much — ” 

“  Love — ” 

There  was  a  pause  and  then  she  falteringly  said, 
“  Love — ” 

“  As  you  give  to  me — ” 

“  As  you  give  to  me — ” 

“  And  I’ll  take  you  poor  as  you  are — ” 

“  And  I’ll  take  you  poor  as  you  are — ” 

“  To  be  my  husband  as  long  as  you  live — ” 

“  To  be  my  husband  as  long  as  you  live — ” 

“  So  help  me,  God.” 

“  So  help  me,  God.” 

She  stooped  with  dropping  tears,  and  he  kissed 
her  once.  Then  what  was  girl  in  her  timidly  drew 
back,  while  what  was  woman  in  her,  and  therefore 
maternal,  yearned  over  the  sufferer. 

They  had  not  seen  the  figure  of  an  old  man  at  the 
door.  They  did  not  hear  him  enter.  They  only 
knew  of  Peter  Galbraith’s  presence  when  he  said ; 
“  Mebbe — mebbe  I  might  say  Amen  !  ” 


Three  Outlaws. 


The  missionary  at  Fort  Anne  of  the  H.  B.  C.  was 
violently  in  earnest.  Before  he  piously  followed  the 
latest  and  most  amply  endowed  batch  of  settlers, 
who  had  in  turn  preceded  the  new  railway  to  the 
Fort,  the  word  scandal  had  no  place  in  the  vocabu¬ 
lary  of  the  citizens.  The  H.  B.  C.  had  never  im¬ 
ported  it  into  the  Chinook  language,  the  common 
meeting-ground  of  all  the  tribes  of  the  North  ;  and 
the  British  men  and  native-born,  who  made  the  Fort 
their  home,  or  place  of  sojourn,  had  never  found 
need  for  its  use.  Justice  was  so  quickly  distributed, 
men  were  so  open  in  their  conduct,  good  and  bad, 
that  none  looked  askance,  nor  put  their  actions  in 
ambush,  nor  studied  innuendo.  But  this  was  not  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  new  dispensation  ;  that  is,  the  dispen¬ 
sation  which  shrewdly  followed  the  settlers,  who  as 
shrewdly  preceded  the  railway.  And  the  dispensa¬ 
tion  and  the  missionary  were  known  also  as  the  Rev¬ 
erend  Ezra  Badgley,  who,  on  his  own  declaration,  in 
times  past  had  “  a  call  ”  to  preach,  and  in  the  far 
East  had  served  as  local  preacher,  then  probationer, 
then  went  on  circuit,  and  now  was  missionary  in  a 
district  of  which  the  choice  did  credit  to  his  astute¬ 
ness,  and  gave  abundant  room  for  his  piety  and  holy 
raffc  asrainst  the  Philistines.  He  loved  a  word  for 
righteous  mouthing,  and  in  a  moment  of  inspiration 
pagan  and  scandal  came  to  him.  Upon  these  two 
words  he  stamped,  through  them  he  perspired 


128 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


mightily,  and  with  them  he  clenched  his  stubby 
fingers  :  such  fingers  as  dug  trenches,  or  snatched 
lewdly  at  soft  flesh,  in  days  of  barbarian  battle.  To 
him  all  men  were  Pagans  who  loved  not  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  nor  wrestled  with  him  in  prayer  before 
the  Lord,  nor  fed  him  with  rich  food,  nor  gave  him 
much  strong  green  tea  to  drink.  But  these  men 
were  of  opaque  stuff,  and  were  not  dismayed,  and 
they  called  him  St.  Anthony,  and  with  a  prophetic 
and  deadly  patience  waited.  The  time  came  when 
the  missionary  shook  his  denouncing  finger  mostly 
at  Pretty  Pierre,  who  carefully  nursed  his  silent 
wrath  until  the  occasion  should  arrive  for  a  delicate 
revenge  which  hath  its  hour  with  every  man,  if, 
hating,  he  knows  how  to  bide  the  will  of  Fate. 

The  hour  came.  A  girl  had  been  found  dying  on 
the  roadside  beyond  the  Fort  by  the  drunken  doctor 
of  the  place  and  Pierre.  Pierre  was  with  her  when 
she  died. 

“  An’  who’s  to  bury  her,  the  poor  colleen  ?  ”  said 
Shon  McGann  afterwards. 

Pierre  musingly  replied  ;  “  She  is  a  Protestant. 
There  is  but  one  man.” 

After  many  pertinent  and  vigorous  remarks,  Shon 
added  :  “  A  Pagan  is  it  he  calls  you,  Pierre  :  you 
that’s  had  the  holy  water  on  y’r  forehead,  and  the 
cross  on  the  water,  and  that  knows  the  book  o’  the 
Mass  like  the  cards  in  a  pack  ?  Sinner  y’  are,  and  so 
are  we  all,  God  save  us !  say  I ;  and  weavin’  the 
stripes  for  our  backs  He  may  be,  and  little  Fd  think 
of  Him  failin’  in  that :  but  Pagan  ! — faith,  it’s  black 
should  be  the  white  of  the  eyes  of  that  preachin’ 
sneak,  and  a  rattle  of  teeth  in  his  throat — divils  go 
round  me !  ” 


THREE  OUTLAWS. 


129 


The  half-breed,  still  musing,  replied  :  An  eye  for 
an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth — is  that  it,  Shon  ?  ” 

“  Niver  a  word  truer  by  song  or  by  book,  and 
stand  by  the  text,  say  I.  For  Papist  I  am,  and 
Papist  are  you ;  and  the  imps  from  below  in  y’r  fin¬ 
gers  whin  poker  is  the  game  ;  and  outlaws  as  they 
call  us  both — you  for  what  it  doesn’t  concern  me, 
and  I  for  a  wild  night  in  ould  Donegal ; — but  Pa¬ 
gan  !  Wurra  !  whin  shall  it  be,  Pierre  ?  ” 

“  When  shall  what  be  ?  ” 

“True  for  you.  The  teeth  in  his  throat  and  a 
lump  to  his  eye,  and  what  more  be  the  will  o’  God. 
Fightin’  there’ll  be,  av  coorse  ;  but  by  you  I’ll  stand, 
and  sorra  inch  will  I  give,  if  they’ll  do  it  with  sticks 
or  with  guns,  and  not  with  the  blisterin’  tongue  that’s 
lied  of  me  and  me  frinds — for  frind  I  call  you, 
Pierre,  that  loved  me  little  in  days  gone  by.  And 
proud  I  am  not  of  you,  nor  you  of  me  ;  but  we’ve 
tasted  the  bitter  of  avil  days  together,  and  divils 
surround  me,  if  I  don’t  go  down  with  you  or  come 
up  with  you,  whichever  it  be  !  For  there’s  dirt,  as  I 
say,  on  their  tongues,  and  over  their  shoulder  they 
look  at  you  and  not  with  an  eye  full  front.” 

Pierre  was  cool,  even  pensive.  His  lips  parted 
slightly  once  or  twice,  and  showed  a  row  of  white, 
malicious  teeth.  For  the  rest,  he  looked  as  if  he 
were  politely  interested  but  not  moved  by  the  ex¬ 
citement  of  the  other.  He  slowly  rolled  a  cigarette 
and  replied  :  “  He  says  it  is  a  scandal  that  I  live  at 
Fort  Anne.  Well,  I  was  here  before  he  came,  and 
I  shall  be  here  after  he  goes — yes.  A  scandal— 
Tsh  !  what  is  that  ?  You  know  the  word  Raca  of  the 
Book  ?  Well,  there  shall  be  more  Raca  soon — per¬ 
haps.  No,  there  shall  not  be  fighting  as  you  think, 

9 


FIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


130 

Shot! ;  but  ” —  here  Pierre  rose,  came  over,  and 
spread  his  fingers  lightly  on  Shon’s  breast — “but 
this  thing  is  between  this  man  and  me,  Shon  Me- 
Gann,  and  you  shall  see  a  great  matter.  Perhaps 
there  will  be  blood,  perhaps  not — perhaps  only  an 
end.”  And  the  half-breed  looked  up  at  the  Irish¬ 
man  from  under  his  dark  brows  so  covertly  and 
meaningly  that  Shon  saw  visions  of  a  trouble  as 
silent  as  a  plague,  as  resistless  as  a  great  flood. 
This  noiseless  vengeance  was  not  after  his  own 
heart.  He  almost  shivered  as  the  delicate  fingers 
drummed  on  his  breast. 

“  Angels  begird  me.  Pretty  Pierre,  but  it’s  little 
I’d  like  you  for  enemy  o’  mine  ;  for  I  know  that 
you’d  wait  for  y’r  foe  with  death  in  y’r  hand,  and 
pity  far  from  y’r  heart ;  and  y’d  smile  as  you  pulled 
the  blackcap  on  y’r  head,  and  laugh  as  you  drew  the 
life  out  of  him,  God  knows  how  !  Arrah,  give  me, 
say  I,  the  crack  of  a  stick,  the  bite  of  a  gun,  or  the 
clip  of  a  saber’s  edge,  with  a  shout  in  y’r  mouth  the 
while  !  ” 

Though  Pierre  still  listened  lazily,  there  was  a 
wicked  fire  in  his  eyes.  His  words  now  came  from 
his  teeth  with  cutting  precision  :  “  I  have  a  great 
thought  to-night,  Shon  McGann.  I  will  tell  you 
when  we  meet  again.  But,  my  friend,  one  must  not  be 
too  rash — no,  not  too  brutal.  Even  the  saber  should 
fall  at  the  right  time,  and  then  swift  and  still.  Noise 
is  not  battle.  Well,  au  revoir  !  To-morrow  I  shall 
tell  you  many  things.”  He  caught  Shon’s  hand 
quickly,  as  quickly  dropped  it,  and  went  out,  in¬ 
dolently  singing  a  favorite  song, — “  Void  le  Sabre 
de  mon  Pere  !  ” 

It  was  dark.  Pretty  Pierre  stood  still,  and 


THREE  OUTLAWS. 


thought  for  a  while.  At  last  he  spoke  aloud  : 
“  Well,  I  shall  do  it  now  I  have  him — so  !  ”  And 
he  opened  and  shut  his  hand  swiftly  and  firmly. 
He  moved  on,  avoiding  the  more  habited  parts  of 
the  place,  and  by  a  roundabout  came  to  a  house 
standing  very  close  to  the  bank  of  the  river.  He 
went  softly  to  the  door  and  listened.  Light  shone 
through  the  curtain  of  a  window.  He  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  beneath  the  curtain.  Then  he 
came  back  to  the  door,  opened  it  very  gently 
stepped  inside,  and  closed  it  iDehind  him. 

A  man  seated  at  a  table,  eating,  rose  ;  a  man  on 
whom  greed  had  set  its  mark — greed  of  the  flesh, 
greed  of  men’s  praise,  greed  of  money.  His  frame 
was  thick-set,  his  body  was  heavily  nourished,  his 
eye  was  shifty  but  intelligent ;  and  a  close  observer 
would  have  seen  something  elusive,  something  fur¬ 
tive  and  sinister,  in  his  face.  His  lips  were  greasy 
with  meat  as  he  stood  up,  and  a  fear  sprang  to  his 
face,  so  that  its  fat  looked  sickly.  But  he  said 
hoarsely,  and  with  an  attempt  at  being  brave : _ _ 

How  dare  you  enter  my  house  without  knocking .? 
What  do  you  want  ?  ” 

.  half-breed  waved  a  hand  protestingly  towards 
him.  “  Pardon  !  ”  he  said.  “  Be  seated,  and  fin- 
ish  your  meal.  Do  you  know  me  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  know  you.” 

“  Well,  as  I  said,  do  not  stop  your  meal.  I  have 
come  to  speak  with  you  very  quietly  about  a  scandal 
—a  scandal,  you  understand.  This  is  Sunday 
night,  a  good  time  to  talk  of  such  things.”  And 
Pierre  seated  himself  at  the  table,  opposite  the  man. 

But  the  man  replied  ;  “  I  have  nothing  to  say  to 
you.  You  are - ” 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


X32 

The  half-breed  interrupted;  “Yes,  I  know,  a 
Pagan  fattening  ” — here  he  smiled,  and  looked  at 
his  thin  hands — “  ‘  fattening  for  the  shambles  of  the 
damned,’  as  you  have  said  from  the  pulpit.  Reverend 
Ezra  Badgley.  But  you  will  permit  me — a  sinner 
as  you  say — to  speak  to  you  like  this  while  you  sit 
down  and  eat.  I  regret  to  disturb  you,  but  you  will 
sit,  eh }  ” 

Pierre’s  tone  was  smooth  and  low,  almost  defer¬ 
ential,  and  his  eyes,  wide  open  now,  and  hot  with 
some  hidden  purpose,  were  fixed  cornpellingly  on 
the  man.  The  missionary  sat,  and,  having  recovered 
slightly,  fumbled  with  a  knife  and  fork.  ^  A  napkin 
was  still  beneath  his  greasy  chin.  He  did  not  take 
it  away. 

Pierre  then  spoke  slowly  :  “  Yes,  it  is  a  scandal 
concerning  a  sinner — and  a  Pagan.  .  .  .  Will  you 
permit  me  to  light  a  cigarette  ?  Thank  you.  .  .  . 
You  have  said  many  harsh  things  about  me  :  well, 
as  you  see,  I  am  amiable.  I  lived  at  Fort  Anne  be¬ 
fore  you  came.  They  call  me  Pretty  Pierre.  Why 
is  my  cheek  so  ?  Because  I  drink  no  wine  ;  I  eat 
not  much.  Pardon  I  pork  like  that  on  your  plate 
no — no  !  I  do  not  take  green  tea  as  there  in  your 
cup ;  I  do  not  love  women,  one  or  many.  Again, 
Pardon  !  I  say.” 

The  other  drew  his  brows  together  with  an  at¬ 
tempt  at  pious  frowning  and  indignation  ;  but  there 
was  a  cold,  sneering  smile  now  turned  upon  him, 
that  changed  the  frown  to  anxiety,  and  made  his  lips 
twitch,  and  the  food  he  had  eaten  grow  heavy  within 
him. 

“I  come  to  the  scandal  slowly.  The  woman? 
She  was  a  young  girl  traveling  from  the  far  East,  to 


THREE  OH  TLA  tvs. 


133 


search  for  a  man  who  had — spoiled  her.  She  was 
found  by  me  and  another.  Ah,  you  start  so  !  .  .  . 
Will  you  not  listen  ?  .  .  .  Well,  she  died  to-night.” 

Here  the  missionary  gasped,  and  caught  with  both 
hands  at  the  table. 

“  But  before  she  died  she  gave  two  things  into  my 
hands  :  a  packet  of  letters  (a  man  is  a  fool  to  write 
such  letters  !)  and  a  small  bottle  of  poison — laud¬ 
anum,  old-fashioned  but  sure.  The  letters  were 
from  the  man  at  Fort  Anne — f/ie  man^  you  hear ! 
The  other  was  for  her  death,  if  he  would  not  take 
her  to  his  arms  again.  Women  are  mad  when  they 
love.  And  so  she  came  to  Fort  Anne,  but  not  in 
time.  The  scandal  is  great,  because  the  man  is 
holy — sit  down  !  ” 

The  half-breed  said  the  last  two  words  sharply, 
but  not  loudly.  They  both  sat  down  slowly  again, 
looking  each  other  in  the  eyes.  Then  Pierre  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  small  bottle  and  a  packet  of  letters, 
and  held  them  before  him.  “  I  have  this  to  say  : 
there  are  citizens  of  Fort  Anne  who  stand  for  justice 
more  than  law;  who  have  no  love  for  the  ways  of 
St.  Anthony.  There  is  a  pagan,  too,  an  outlaw,  who 
knows  when  it  is  time  to  give  blow  for  blow  with 
the  holy  man.  Well,  we  understand  each  other,  eh  ?  ” 

The  elusive,  sinister  look  in  the  missionary’s  face 
was  etched  in  strong  lines  now.  A  dogged  sullen¬ 
ness  hung  about  his  Tips.  He  noticed  that  one  hand 
only  of  Pretty  Pierre  was  occupied  with  the  relics 
of  the  dead  girl ;  the  other  was  free  to  act  suddenly 
on  a  hip  pocket.  “  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?  ” 
he  said,  not  whiningly,  for  beneath  the  selfish  flesh 
and  shallow  outworks  there  were  the  elements  of  a 
warrior — all  pulpy  now,  but  they  were  there. 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


134 

“  This,”  was  the  reply :  “  for  you  to  maKe  one 
more  outlaw  at  Fort  Anne  by  drinking  what  is  in 
this  bottle — sit  down,  quick,  by  God  !  ”  He  placed 
the  bottle  within  reach  of  the  other.  “  Then  you 
shall  have  these  letters  ;  and  there  is  the  fire.  After  ? 
Well,  you  will  have  a  great  sleep,  the  good  people 
will  find  you,  they  will  bury  you,  weeping  much,  and 
no  one  knows  here  but  me.  Refuse  that,  and  there 
is  the  other,  the  Law — ah,  the  poor  girl  was  so  very 
young  ! — and  the  wild  Justice  which  is  sometimes 
quicker  than  Law.  Well  ?  well  ?  ” 

The  missionary  sat  as  if  paralyzed,  his  face  all 
gray,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  half-breed.  “  Are  you 
man  or  devil  ?  ”  he  said  at  length. 

With  a  slight,  fantastic  gesture  Pierre  replied  :  ^ 
It  was  said  that  a  devil  came  into  me  at  birth,  but 
that  perhaps  was  mere  scandal.  You  shall  think  as 
you  will.” 

There  was  silence.  The  sullenness  about  the 
missionary’s  lips  became  charged  with  a  contempt 
more  animal  than  human.  The  Reverend  Ezra 
Badgley  knew  that  the  man  before  him  was  absolute 
in  his  determination,  and  that  the  Pagans  of  Fort 
Anne  would  show  him  little  mercy,  while  his  flock 
would  leave  him  to  his  fate.  He  looked  at  the  bottle. 
The  silence  grew,  so  that  the  ticking  of  the  watch  in 
the  missionary’s  pocket  could  be  heard  plainly,  hav¬ 
ing  for  its  background  of  sound  the  continuous  swish 
of  the  river.  Pretty  Pierre’s  eyes  were  never  taken 
off  the  other,  whose  gaze,  again,  was  fixed  upon  the 
bottle  with  a  terrible  fascination.  An  hour,  two 
hours,  passed.  The  fire  burned  lower.  It  was 
midnight  :  and  now  the  watch  no  longer  ticked  ;  it 
had  fulfilled  its  day’s  work.  The  missionary  shud* 


THREE  OUTLAWS. 


135 


dered  slightly  at  this.  He  looked  up  to  see  the 
resolute  gloom  of  the  half-breed’s  eyes,  and  that 
sneering  smile,  fixed  upon  him  still.  Then  he  turned 
once  more  to  the  bottle.  .  .  .  His  heavy  hand 
moved  slowly  towards  it.  His  stubby  fingers  per¬ 
spired  and  showed  sickly  in  the  light.  .  .  .  They 
closed  about  the  bottle.  Then  suddenly  he  raised 
it,  and  drained  it  at  a  draught.  He  sighed  once 
heavily,  and  as  if  a  great  inward  pain  was  over.  He 
rose  and  took  the  letters  silently  pushed  towards 
him,  and  dropped  them  in  the  fire.  He  went  to  the 
window,  raised  it,  and  threw  the  bottle  into  the  river. 
The  cork  was  left :  Pierre  pointed  to  it.  He  took  it 
up  with  a  strange  smile  and  thrust  it  into  the  coals. 
Then  he  sat  down  by  the  table  ;  he  leaned  his  arms 
upon  it,  his  eyes  staring  painfully  before  him,  and 
the  forgotten  napkin  still  about  his  neck.  Soon  the 
eyes  closed,  and,  with  a  moan  on  his  lips,  his  head 
dropped  forward  on  his  arms.  .  .  .  Pierre  rose,  and, 
looking  at  the  figure  soon  to  be  breathless  as  the 
baked  meats  about  it,  said:  “Well,  he  was  not  all 
coward.  No.” 

Then  he  turned  and  went  out  into  the  night. 


Shon  McCann’s  Toboggan  Ride. 

“  Oh,  it’s  down  the  long  side  of  Farcalladen  Rise, 

With  the  knees  pressing  hard  to  the  saddle,  my  men  ; 
With  the  sparks  from  the  hoofs  giving  light  to  the  eyes, 
And  our  hearts  beating  hard  as  we  rode  to  the  glen  !— • 

"  And  it’s  back  with  the  ring  of  the  chain  and  the  spur. 
And  it’s  back  with  the  sun  on  the  hill  and  the  moor. 
And  it’s  back  is  the  thought  sets  my  pulses  astir ! — 

But  I’ll  never  go  back  to  Farcalladen  more.” 

Shon  McGann  was  lying  on  a  pile  of  buffalo 
robes  in  a  mountain  hut, — an  Australian  would  call 
it  a  humpey, — singing  thus  to  himself  with  his  pipe 
between  his  teeth.  In  the  room,  besides  Shon,  were 
Pretty  Pierre,  Jo  Gordineer,  the  Honorable  Just 
Trafford,  called  by  his  companions  simply  “  The 
Honorable,”  and  Prince  Levis,  the  owner  of  the 
establishment.  Not  that  Monsieur  Levis,  the  French 
Canadian,  was  really  a  Prince.  The  name  was  given 
to  him  with  a  humorous  cynicism  peculiar  to  the 
Rockies.  We  have  little  to  do  with  Prince  Levis 
here ;  but  since  he  may  appear  elsewhere,  this  expla¬ 
nation  is  made. 

Jo  Gordineer  had  been  telling  The  Honorable 
about  the  ghost  of  Guidon  Mountain,  and  Pretty 
Pierre  was  collaborating  with  their  host  in  the  prep¬ 
aration  of  what,  in  the  presence  of  the  Law — that 
is  of  the  North-West  Mounted  Police — was  called 
ginger-tea,  in  consideration  of  the  prohibition  statute. 


SffOJV  McG ANN'S  TOBOGGAN  RIDE.  137 


Shon  McGann  had  been  left  to  himself — an  un> 
usual  thing  ;  for  every  one  had  a  shot  at  Shon  when 
opportunity  occurred  ;  and  never  a  bull’s-eye  could 
they  make  on  him.  His  wit  was  like  the  shield  of  a 
certain  personage  of  mythology. 

He  had  wandered  on  from  verse  to  verse  of  the 
song  with  one  eye  on  the  collaborators  and  an  ear 
open  to  The  Honorable’s  polite  exclamations  of 
wonder.  Jo  had,  however,  come  to  the  end  of  his 
weird  tale — for  weird  it  certainly  was,  told  at  the 
foot  of  Guidon  Mountain  itself,  and  in  a  region  of 
vast  solitudes — the  pair  of  chemists  were  approaching 
“  the  supreme  union  of  unctuous  elements,”  as  The 
Honorable  put  it,  and  in  the  silence  that  fell  for  a 
moment  there  crept  the  words  of  the  singer  : 

“  And  it’s  down  the  long  side  of  Farcalladen  Rise, 

And  it’s  swift  as  an  arrow  and  straight  as  a  spear — ” 

^  Jo  Gordineer  interrupted.  “  Say,  Shon,  when  shall 
you  get  through  with  that  toboggan  ride  of  yours 
Isn’t  there  any  end  to  it  ?  ” 

But  Shon  was  looking  with  both  eyes  now  at  the 
collaborators,  and  he  sang  softly  on  ; 

“  And  it’s  keen  as  the  frost  when  the  summer-time  dies, 
That  we  rode  to  the  glen  and  with  never  a  fear.” 

And  then  he  added  :  “  The  end’s  cut  off,  Joey,  me 
boy  ;  but  what’s  a  toboggan  ride,  anyway  ?  ” 

“  Listen  to  that,  Pierre.  I’ll  be  eternally  shivered 
if  he  knows  what  a  toboggan  ride  is  !  ” 

“Hot  shivers  it’ll  be  for  you,  Joey,  me  boy,  and 
no  quinine  over  the  bar,  aither,”  said  Shon. 

“  Tell  him  what  a  toboggan  ride  is,  Pierre.” 


138  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

And  Pretty  Pierre  said  :  “  Eh,  well,  I  will  tell 
you — it  is  like — no,  you  have  the  word  precise, 
Joseph  !  Eh  ?  What }  ” 

Pierre  then  added  something  in  French.  Shon 
did  not  understand  it,  but  he  saw  The  Honorable 
smile,  so  with  a  gentle  kind  of  contempt  he  went  on 
singing  : 

“  And  it’ S' hey  for  the  hedge,  and  it’s  hey  for  the  wall ! 

And  it’s  over  the  stream  with  an  echoing  cry  ; 

And  there’s  three  fled  forever  from  old  Donegal, 

And  there’s  two  that  have  shown  how  bold  Irishmen  die.” 

The  Honorable  then  said  :  “  What  is  that  all  about, 
Shon  ?  I  never  heard  the  song  before.” 

“  No  more  you  did.  And  1  wish  I  could  see  the 
lad  that  wrote  that  song,  livin’  or  dead.  If  one  of 
ye’s  will  tell  me  about  your  toboggan  rides.  I’ll  unfold 
about  ‘  The  Song  of  Farcalladen  Rise.’  ” 

Prince  Levis  passed  the  liquor.  Pretty  Pierre, 
seated  on  a  candle-box,  with  a  glass  in  his  delicate 
fingers,  said  : 

“  Eh,  well.  The  Honorable  has  much  language  ; 
he  can  speak,  precise — this  would  be  better  with  a 
little  lemon,  just  a  little, — The  Honorable,  he,  per¬ 
haps,  will  tell.  Eh  ?  ” 

Pretty  Pierre  was  showing  his  white  teeth.  At  this 
stage  in  his  career,  he  did  not  love  The  Honorable. 
The  Honorable  understood  that,  but  he  made  clear 
to  Shon’s  mind  what  tobogganing  is. 

And  Shon  on  his  part,  with  fresh  and  hearty  voice, 
touched  here  and  there  by  a  plaintive  modulation, 
told  about  that  ride  on  Farcalladen  Rise  ;  a  tale  of 
broken  laws,  and  fight  and  fighting,  and  death  and 
exile ;  and  never  a  word  of  hatred  in  it  all. 


SHON  McG ANN'S  TOBOGGAN  RIDE.  139 

“  And  the  writer  of  the  song,  who  was  he  ?  ”  said 
The  Honorable. 

“  A  gentleman  after  God’s  own  heart.  Heaven 
rest  his  soul,  if  he’s  dead,  which  I' in  thinkin’  is  so, 
and  give  him  the  luck  of  the  world  if  he’s  livin’,  say 
I.  But  it’s  little  I  know  what’s  come  to  him.  In  the 
heart  of  Australia  I  saw  him  last ;  and  mates  we 
were  together  after  gold.  And  little  gold  did  we 
get  but  what  was  in  the  heart  of  him.  And  we 
parted  one  day,  I  carryin’  the  song  that  he  wrote  for 
me  of  Farcalladen  Rise,  and  the  memory  of  him  ; 
and  him  givin’  me  the  word, — ‘  I’ll  not  forget  you, 
Shon,  me  boy,  whatever  comes ;  remember  that. 
And  a  short  pull  of  the  Three-Star  together  for  the 
partin’  salute,’  says  he.  And  the  Three-Star  in  one 
sup  each  we  took,  as  solemn  as  the  Mass,  and  he 
went  away  towards  Cloncurry  and  I  to  the  coast ;  and 
that’s  the  last  that  I  saw  of  him,  now  three  years 
gone.  And  here  I  am,  and  I  wish  I  was  with  him 
wherever  he  is.” 

“  What  was  his  name  ?  ”  said  The  Honorable. 

“  Lawless.” 

The  fingers  of  The  Honorable  trembled  on  his 
cigar.  “  Very  interesting,  Shon,”  he  said,  as  he  rose, 
puffing  hard  till  his  face  was  in  a  cloud  of  smoke. 
“  You  had  many  adventures  together,  I  suppose,”  he 
continued. 

“  Adventures  we  had  and  sufferin’  bewhiles,  and 
fun,  too,  to  the  neck  and  flowin’  over.” 

“  You’ll  spin  us  a  long  yarn  about  them  another 
night,  Shon,”  said  The  Honorable. 

“  I’ll  do  it  now — a  yarn  as  long  as  the  lies  of  the 
Government;  and  proud  of  the  chance.” 

“Not  to-night,  Shon  ”  (there  was  a  kind  of  huski- 


140 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


ness  in  the  voice  of  The  Honorable)  ;  “  it’s  time  to 
turn  in.  We’ve  a  long  tramp  over  the  glacier  to¬ 
morrow,  and  we  must  start  at  sunrise.” 

The  Honorable  was  in  command  of  the  party, 
though  Jo  Gordineer  was  the  guide,  and  all  were, 
for  the  moment,  miners,  making  for  the  little  Goshen 
Field  over  in  Pipi  Valley. — At  least  Pretty  Pierre 
said  he  was  a  miner. 

No  one  thought  of  disputing  the  authority  of  The 
Honorable,  and  they  all  rose. 

In  a  few  minutes  there  was  silence  in  the  hut, 
save  for  the  oracular  breathing  of  Prince  Levis  and 
the  sparks  from  the  fire.  But  The  Honorable  did 
not  sleep  well ;  he  lay  and  watched  the  fire  through 
most  of  the  night. 

The  day  was  clear,  glowing,  decisive.  Not  a 
cloud  in  the  curve  of  azure,  not  a  shiver  of  wind 
down  the  canon,  not  a  frown  in  Nature,  if  we  ex¬ 
cept  the  lowering  shadows  from  the  shoulders  of  the 
giants  of  the  range.  Crowning  the  shadows  was  a 
splendid  helmet  of  light,  rich  with  the  dyes  of  the 
morning  ;  the  pines  were  touched  with  a  brilliant 
if  austere  warmth.  The  pride  of  lofty  lineage  and 
severe  isolation  was  regnant  over  all.  And  up 
through  the  splendor,  and  the  shadows,  and  the 
loneliness,  and  the  austere  warmth,  must  our  trav¬ 
elers  go.  Must  go  ?  Scarcely  that,  but  The  Honor¬ 
able  had  made  up  his  mind  to  cross  the  glacier  and 
none  sought  to  dissuade  him  from  his  choice  ;  the 
more  so,  because  there  was  something  of  danger  in 
the  business.  Pretty  Pierre  had  merely  shrugged 
his  shoulders  at  the  suggestion,  and  had  said  : 

“  Oh,  well,  the  higher  we  go  the  faster  we  live, 
that  is  something  ” 


SHON  MCGANN'S  TOBOGGAN  RIDE.  141 

“  Sometimes  we  live  ourselves  to  death  too 
quickly.  In  my  schooldays  I  watched  a  mouse  in  a 
jair  of  oxygen  do  that,”  said  The  Honorable. 

“  That  is  the  best  way  to  die,”  said  the  half-breed 
— “  much.” 

Jo  Gordineer  had  been  over  the  path  before.  He 
was  confident  of  the  way  and  proud  of  his  office  of 
guide. 

“  Climb  Mont  Blanc  if  you  will,”  said  The  Hon¬ 
orable,  “  but  leave  me  these  white  bastions  of  the 
Selkirks.” 

Even  so.  They  have  not  seen  the  snowy  hills  of 
God  who  have  yet  to  look  upon  the  Rocky  Moun¬ 
tains,  absolute,  stupendous,  sublimely  grave. 

Jo  Gordineer  and  Pretty  Pierre  strode  on  together. 
They  being  well  away  from  the  other  two.  The 
Honorable  turned  and  said  to  Shon :  ‘‘What  was 
the  name  of  the  man  who  wrote  that  song  of  yours, 
again,  Shon  ?  ” 

“  Lawless.” 

“  Yes,  but  his  first  name  ?  ” 

“  Duke — Duke  Lawless.” 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  the  other  seemed  to 
be  intently  studying  the  glacier  above  them.  1  hen 
he  said:  “What  was  he  like?— in  appearance,  I 
mean.” 

“  A  trifle  more  than  your  six  feet,  about  your 
color  of  hair  and  eyes,  and  with  a  trick  of  smilin 
that  would  melt  the  heart  of  an  exciseman,  and 
O’Connell’s  own  at  a  joke,  barrin’  a  time  or  two  that 
he  got  hold  of  a  pile  of  papers  from  the  ould  coun¬ 
try.  By  the  grave  of  St.  Shon  !  thin  he  was  as  dry 
of  fun  as  a  piece  of  blotting-paper.  And  he  said  at 
last,  before  he  was  aisy  and  free  again,  ‘  Shon, 


142 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


says  he,  ‘  it’s  better  to  burn  your  ships  behind  ye, 
isn’t  it  ?  ’ 

“  And  I,  havin’  thought  of  a  glen  in  ould  Ireland 
that  I’ll  never  see  again,  nor  any  that’s  in  it,  said  : 

‘  Not  only  burn  them  to  the  water’s  edge,  Duke  Law¬ 
less,  but  swear  to  your  own  soul  that  they  never  sailed 
but  in  the  dreams  of  the  night.’ 

“  ‘  You’re  right  there,  Shon,’  says  he,  and  after  that 
no  luck  was  bad  enough  to  cloud  the  gay  heart  of 
him,  and  bad  enough  it  was  sometimes.” 

“  And  why  do  you  fear  that  he  is  not  alive  ?  ” 

“  Because  I  met  an  old  mate  of  mine  one  day  on 
the  Frazer,  and  he  said  that  Lawless  had  never  come 
to  Cloncurry  ;  and  a  hard,  hard  road  it  was  to  travel.” 

Jo  Gordineer  was  calling  to  them  and  there  the 
conversation  ended.  In  a  few  minutes  the  four  stood 
on  the  edge  of  the  glacier.  Each  man  had  a  long 
hickory  stick  which  served  as  alpenstock,  a  bag 
hung  at  his  side,  and  tied  to  his  back  was  his  gold- 
pan,  the  hollow  side  in,  of  course.  Shon’s  was  tied 
a  little  lower  down  than  the  others. 

They  passed  up  this  solid  river  of  ice,  this  giant 
power  at  endless  strife  with  the  high  hills,  up  towards 
its  head.  The  Honorable  was  the  first  to  reach  the 
point  of  vantage,  and  to  look  down  upon  the  vast 
and  wandering  fissures,  the  frigid  bulwarks,  the  great 
fortresses  of  ice,  the  ceaseless  snows,  the  aisles  of 
this  mountain  sanctuary  through  which  Nature’s 
splendid  anthems  rolled.  Shon  was  a  short  distance 
below  with  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  sweeping  the 
semi-circle  of  glory. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  cry  from  Pierre  : 
“  Mon  Dieii  !  Look  !  ” 

Shon  McGann  had  fallen  on  a  smooth  pavement  of 


SHON  MCGANN'S  TOBOGGAN  RIDE.  143 

ice.  The  gold-pan  was  beneath  him,  and  down  the 
glacier  he  was  whirled — whirled,  for  Shon  had  thrust 
his  heels  in  the  snow  and  ice,  and  the  gold-pan  per¬ 
formed  a  series  of  circles  as  it  sped  down  the  incline. 
His  fingers  clutched  the  ice  and  snow,  but  they  only 
left  a  red  mark  of  blood  behind.  Must  he  go  the 
whole  course  of  that  frozen  slide,  plump  into  the  wild 
depths  below  ? 

Afon  Dien  ! — mon  Dieu!''’  said  Pretty  Pierre, 
piteously.  The  face  of  The  Honorable  was  set 
and  tense.  Jo  Gordineer’s  hand  clutched  his  throat 
as  if  he  choked.  Still  Shon  sped.  It  was  a  matter  of 
seconds  only.  The  tragedy  crowded  to  the  awful 
end. 

But,  no. 

There  was  a  tilt  in  the  glacier,  and  the  gold-pan, 
suddenly  swirling,  again  swung  to  the  outer  edge, 
and  shot  over. 

As  if  hurled  from  a  catapult,  the  Irishman  was 
ejected  from  the  white  monster’s  back.  He  fell  on 
a  wide  shelf  of  ice,  covered  with  light  snow,  through 
which  he  was  tunnelled,  and  dropped  on  another 
ledge  below,  near  the  path  by  which  he  and  his  com¬ 
panions  had  ascended. 

“  Shied  from  the  finish,  by  God !  ”  said  Jo  Gor- 
dineer. 

“  Le pauvre  Shon  !  ”  added  Pretty  Pierre. 

The  Honorable  was  making  his  way  down,  his 
brain  haunted  by  the  words,  “  He’ll  never  go  back 
to  Farcalladen  more.” 

But  Jo  was  right. 

For  Shon  McGann  was  alive.  He  lay  breathless, 
helpless,  for  a  moment ;  then  he  sat  up  and  scanned 
his  lacerated  fingers  ;  he  looked  up  the  path  by 


144 


FJEKRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


which  he  had  come  ;  he  looked  down  the  path  he 
seemed  destined  to  go  ;  he  started  to  scratch  his 
head,  but  paused  in  the  act,  by  reason  of  his  fingers. 

Then  he  said  :  “  It’s  my  mother  wouldn’t  know  me 
from  a  can  of  cold  meat  if  I  hadn’t  stopped  at  this 
station  ;  but  wurrawurra  !  what  a  car  it  was  to  come 
in !  ”  And  he  looked  at  his  tattered  clothes  and 
bare  elbows.  He  then  unbuckled  the  gold-pan,  and 
no  easy  task  was  it  with  his  ragged  fingers._  “  ’Twas 
not  for  deep  minin’  I  brought  ye,”  he  said  to  the 
pan,  “  nor  for  scrapin’  the  clothes  from  me  back.” 

Just  then  The  Honorable  came  up.  “  Shon,  my 
man  .  .  .  alive,  thank  God !  How  is  it  with  you  ?  ” 

“  I’m  hardly  worth  the  lookin’  at.  I  wouldn’t 
turn  my  back  to  ye  for  a  ransom.” 

“  It’s  enough  that  you’re  here  at  all.” 

“  Ah,  voila  /  this  Irishman  !  ”  said  Pretty  Pierre, 
as  his  light  fingers  touched  Shon’s  bruised  arm 
gently. 

This  from  pretty  Pierre  ! 

There  was  that  in  the  voice  which  went  to  Shon’s 
heart.  Who  could  have  guessed  that  this  outlaw  of 
the  North  would  ever  show  a  sign  of  sympathy  or 
friendship  for  anybody  ?  But  it  goes  to  prove  that 
you  can  never  be  exact  in  your  estimate  of  character. 
Jo  Gordineer  only  said  jestingly  ;  “  Say,  now,  what 
are  you  doing,  Shon,  bringing  us  down  here,  when  we 
might  be  well  into  the  Valley  by  this  time  1  ” 

“  That  in  your  face  and  the  hair  off  your  head,” 
said  Shon  ;  “  it’s  little  you  know  a  toboggan  ride  when 
you  see  one.  I’ll  take  my  share  of  the  grog,  by  the 
same  token.” 

The  Honorable  uncorked  his  flask,  Shon  threw 
back  his  head  with  a  laugh. 


SIION  McG ANN'S  TOBOGGAN  B/JDE.  145 

“  For  it’s  rest  when  the  gallop  is  over,  me  men ! 

And  it’s  here’s  to  the  lads  that  have  ridden  their  last ; 

And  it’s  here’s - ” 

But  Short  had  fainted  with  the  flask  in  his  hand  and 
this  snatch  of  a  song  on  his  lips. 

They  reached  shelter  that  night.  Had  it  not  been 
for  the  accident,  they  would  have  got  to  their  destina¬ 
tion  in  the  V alley;  but  here  they  were  twelve  miles  from 
it.  Whether  this  was  fortunate  or  unfortunate  may 
be  seen  later.  Comfortably  bestowed  in  this  mountain 
tavern,  after  they  had  toasted  and  eaten  their  veni¬ 
son  and  lit  their  pipes,  they  drew  about  the  fire. 

Besides  the  four,  there  was  a  figure  that  lay  sleep¬ 
ing  in  a  corner  on  a  pile  of  pine  branches,  wrapped  in 
a  bearskin  robe.  Whoever  it  was  slept  soundly. 

“  And  what  was  it  like — the  gold-pan  flyer — the 
toboggan  ride,  Shon.?”  remarked  Jo  Gordineer. 

“What  was  it  like.? — what  was  it  like  ?”  replied 
Shon.  “  Sure,  I  couldn’t  see  what  it  was  like  for  the 
stars  that  were  hittin’  me  in  the  eyes.  There  wasn’t 
any  world  at  all,  I  was  ridin’  on  a  streak  of  lightnin’ 
and  nivir  a  rubber  for  the  wheels ;  and  me  fingers 
makin’  stripes  of  blood  on  the  snow ;  and  now  the 
stars  that  were  hittin’  me  were  white,  and  thin  they 
were  red,  and  sometimes  blue - ” 

“  The  Stars  and  Stripes,”  inconsiderately  remarked 
Jo  Gordineer. 

“  And  there  wasn’t  any  beginning  to  things,  nor 
any  end  of  them  ;  and  whin  I  struck  the  snow  and 
cut  down  the  core  of  it  like  a  cat  through  a  glass,  I 
was  willin’  to  say  with  the  Prophet  of  Ireland - ” 

“  Are  you  going  to  pass  the  liniment,  Pretty 
Pierre  ?  ” 

It  was  Jo  Gordineer  said  that. 

10 


146 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


What  the  Prophet  of  Israel  did  say — Israel  and 
Ireland  were  identical  to  Shon — was  never  told. 

Shon’s  bubbling  sarcasm  was  full-stopped  by  the 
beneficent  savor  that,  rising  now  from  the  hands  of 
the  four,  silenced  all  irrelevant  speech.  It  was  a 
function  of  importance.  It  was  not  simply  necessary 
to  say  How  !  or  Here's  reformation  /  or  Hook  towards 
you  /  As  if  by  a  common  instinct.  The  Honorable, 
Jo  Gordineer,  and  Pretty  Pierre,  turned  towards  Shon 
and  lifted  their  glasses.  Jo  Gordineer  was  going  to 
say  :  “  Here’s  a  safe  foot  in  the  stirrups  to  you,”  but 
he  changed  his  mind  and  drank  in  silence. 

Shon’s  eye  had  been  blazing  with  fun,  but  it  took 
on,  all  at  once,  a  misty  twinkle.  None  of  them  had 
quite  bargained  for  this.  The  feeling  had  come  like  a 
wave  of  soft  lightning,  and  had  passed  through  them. 
Did  it  come  from  the  Irishman  himself  ?  Was  it  his 
own  nature  acting  through  those  who  called  him 
“  partner  ”  ? 

Pretty  Pierre  got  up  and  kicked  savagely  at  the 
wood  in  the  big  fireplace.  He  ostentatiously  and 
needlessly  put  another  log  of  Norfolk-pine  upon  the 
fire. 

The  Honorable  gayly  suggested  a  song. 

“  Sing  us  ‘  Avec  les  Braves  Sauvages^'  Pierre,”  said 
Jo  Gordineer. 

But  Pierre  waved  his  fingers  towards  Shon  :  “  Shon, 
his  song — he  did  not  finish — on  the  glacier.  It  is 
good  we  hear  all.  Eh  ?  ” 

And  so  Shon  sang  ; 

“  Oh,  it’s  down  the  long  side  of  Farcalladen  Rise.’ 

The  sleeper  on  the  pine  branches  stirred  nervously, 
as  if  the  song  were  coming  through  a  dream  to  him. 


S//OJV  McGAJVJV’S  TOBOGGAJ^  RIDE. 


147 


At  the  third  verse  he  started  up,  and  an  eager  sun¬ 
burned  face  peered  from  the  half-darkness  at  the 
singer.  The  Honorable  was  sitting  in  the  shadow, 
with  his  back  to  the  new  actor  in  the  scene. 

“  For  it’s  rest  when  the  gallop  is  over,  my  men  ! 

And  it’s  here’s  to  the  lads  that  have  ridden  their  last ! 
And  it’s  here’s - ” 

Shon  paused.  One  of  those  strange  lapses  of  mem¬ 
ory  came  to  him  that  come  at  times  to  most  of  us 
concerning  familiar  things.  He  could  get  no  further 
than  he  did  on  the  mountain-side.  He  passed  his 
hand  over  his  forehead,  stupidly  : — “  Saints  forgive 
me  !  but  it’s  gone  from  me,  and  sorra  the  one  can  I 
get  it ;  me  that  had  it  by  heart,  and  the  lad  that  wrote 
it  far  away.  Death  in  the  world,  but  I’ll  try  it  again  ! 

“  For  it’s  rest  when  the  gallop  is  over,  my  men  ! 

And  it’s  here’s  to  the  lads  that  have  ridden  their  last  f 
And  it’s  here’s - ” 

Again  he  paused. 

But  from  the  half-darkness  there  came  a  voice,  a 
clear  baritone  : 

“  And  here’s  to  the  lasses  we  leave  in  the  glen, 

With  a  smile  for  the  future,  a  sigh  for  the  past.” 

At  the  last  words  the  figure  strode  down  into  the 
firelight. 

“  Shon,  old  friend,  don’t  you  know  me  ?  ” 

Shon  had  started  to  his  feet  at  the  first  note  of 
the  voice,  and  stood  as  if  spellbound. 

There  was  no  shaking  of  hands.  Both  men  held 
each  other  hard  by  the  shoulders,  and  stood  so  for 
a  moment  looking  steadily  eye  to  eye. 

Then  Shon  said  :  “  Duke  Lawless,  there’s  parallels 


148  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

of  latitude  and  parallels  of  longitude,  but  who  knows 
the  tomb  of  ould  Brian  Borhoime  ?  ” 

Which  was  his  way  of  saying,  “  How  come  you 
here  ?  ” 

Duke  Lawless  turned  to  the  others  before  he  re¬ 
plied.  His  eyes  fell  on  The  Honorable.  With  a 
start  and  a  step  backward  he  said,  a  peculiar  angry 
dryness  in  his  voice  : 

“  Just  Trafford  !  ” 

“  Yes,”  replied  The  Honorable,  smiling,  “  I  have 
found  you.” 

“  Found  me  !  And  why  have  you  sought  me  — ■ 
me,  Duke  Lawless?  I  should  have  thought - ” 

The  Honorable  interrupted :  “  To  tell  you  that  you 
are  Sir  Duke  Lawless.” 

“  That  ?  You  sought  me  to  tell  me  that  ?  ” 

“  I  did.” 

“  You  are  sure  ?  And  for  naught  else  ?” 

“  As  I  live,  Duke.” 

The  eyes  fixed  on  The  Honorable  were  search¬ 
ing.  Sir  Duke  hesitated,  then  held  out  his  hand. 
In  a  swift  but  cordial  silence  it  was  taken.  Nothing 
more  could  be  said  then.  It  is  only  in  plays  where 
gentlemen  freely  discuss  family  affairs  before  a  curi¬ 
ous  public.  Pretty  Pierre  was  busy  with  a  decoc¬ 
tion.  Jo  Gordineer  was  his  associate.  Shon  had 
drawn  back,  and  was  apparently  examining  the  in¬ 
dentations  on  his  gold-pan. 

“  Shon,  old  fellow,  come  here,”  said  Sir  Duke 
Lawless. 

But  Shon  had  received  a  shock.  “  It’s  little  I 
knew  Sir  Duke  Lawless - ”  he  said. 

“  It’s  little  you  needed  to  know  then,  or  need  to 
know  now,  Shon,  my  friend.  I’m  Duke  Lawless  to 


SHON  MCG ANN'S  TOBOGGAN  S/NS:.  14^ 

you  here  and  henceforth,  as  ever  I  was  then,  on  the 
wallaby  track.” 

And  Shon  believed  him. 

The  glasses  were  ready. 

“I’ll  give  the  toast,”  said  The  Honorable,  with  a 
gentle  gravity.  “To  Shon  McGann  and  his  Tobog¬ 
gan  Ride  ?  ” 

“  I’ll  drink  to  the  first  half  of  it  with  all  my  heart,” 
said  Sir  Duke,  “  It’s  all  I  know  about.” 

“  Amen  to  that  divorce  !  ”  rejoined  Shon, 

“But  were  it  not  for  the  Toboggan  Ride  we 
shouldn’t  have  stopped  here,”  said  The  Honorable  ; 
“  and  where  would  this  meeting  have  been  ?  ” 

“That  alters  the  case,”  Sir  Duke  remarked. 

“  I  take  back  the  ‘  Amen,’  ”  said  Shon. 


H. 

Whatever  claims  Shon  had  upon  the  companion¬ 
ship  of  Sir  Duke  Lawless,  he  knew  there  were  other 
claims  that  were  more  pressing.  After  the  toast 
was  finished,  with  an  emphasized  assumption  of 
weariness,  and  a  hint  of  a  long  yarn  on  the  morrow, 
he  picked  up  his  blanket  and  started  for  the  room 
where  all  were  to  sleep.  The  real  reason  of  this 
early  departure  was  clear  to  Pretty  Pierre  at  once, 
and  in  due  time  it  dawned  upon  Jo  Gordineer. 

The  two  Englishmen,  left  alone,  sat  for  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  silent  and  smoking  hard.  Then  The  Honor¬ 
able  rose,  got  his  knapsack,  and  took  out  a  small 
number  of  papers,  which  he  handed  to  Sir  Duke, 
saying,  “  By  slow  postal  service  to  Sir  Duke  Lawless. 
Residence,  somewhere  on  one  of  five  continents.” 


15° 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


An  envelope  bearing  a  woman’s  writing  was  the 
first  thing  that  met  Sir  Duke’s  eye.  He  stared,  took 
it  out,  turned  it  over,  looked  curiously  at  The  Hon¬ 
orable  for  a  moment,  and  then  began  to  break  the 
seal. 

“  Wait,  Duke.  Do  not  read  that.  We  have  some¬ 
thing  to  say  to  each  other  first.” 

Sir  Duke  laid  the  letter  down.  “You  have  some 
explanation  to  make,”  he  said. 

“  It  was  so  long  ago  ;  mightn’t  it  be  better  to  go 
over  the  story  again  ?  ” 

“  Perhaps.” 

“  Then  it  is  best  you  should  tell  it.  I  am  on  my 
defense,  you  know.” 

Sir  Duke  leaned  back,  and  a  frown  gathered  on 
his  forehead.  Strikingly  out  of  place  on  his  fresh 
face  it  seemed.  LooHng  quickly  from  the  fire  to 
the  face  of  The  Honorable  and  back  again  earnest¬ 
ly,  as  if  the  full  force  of  what  was  required  came  to 
him,  he  said  :  “  We  shall  get  the  perspective  better 
if  we  put  the  tale  in  the  third  person.  Duke  Law¬ 
less  was  the  heir  to  the  title  and  estates  of  Trafford 
Court.  Next  in  succession  to  him  was  Just  Trafford, 
his  cousin.  Lawless  had  an  income  sufficient  for 
a  man  of  moderate  tastes.  Trafford  had  not  quite 
that,  but  he  had  his  profession  of  the  law.  At  col¬ 
lege  they  had  been  fast  friends,  but  afterwards  had 
drifted  apart,  through  no  cause  save  difference  of 
pursuits  and  circumstances.  Friends  they  still  were, 
and  likely  to  be  so  always.  One  summer,  when  on 
a  visit  to  his  uncle.  Admiral  Sir  Clavel  Lawless,  at 
Trafford  Court,  where  a  party  of  people  had  been 
invited  for  a  month,  Duke  Lawless  fell  in  love  with 
Miss  Emily  Dorset.  She  did  him  the  honor  to 


SIION  MCCANN'S  TOBOGGAN  RIDE.  15 1 

prefer  him  to  any  other  man — at  least,  he  thought 
so.  Her  income,  however,  was  limited  like  his  own. 
The  engagement  was  not  announced  ;  for  Lawless 
wished  to  make  a  home  before  he  took  a  wife.  He 
inclined  to  ranching  in  Canada,  or  a  planter’s  life  in 
Queensland.  The  eight  or  ten  thousand  pounds 
necessary  was  not,  however,  easy  to  get  for  the  start, 
and  he  hadn’t  the  least  notion  of  discounting  the 
future,  by  asking  the  admiral’s  help.  Besides,  he 
knew  his  uncle  did  not  wish  him  to  marry  unless  he 
married  a  woman  phis  a  fortune.  While  things  were 
in  this  uncertain  state.  Just  Trafford  arrived  on  a 
visit  to  TrafEord  Court.  The  meeting  of  the  old 
friends  was  cordial.  Immediately  on  Tralford’s 
arrival,  however,  the  current  of  events  changed. 
Things  occurred  which  brought  disaster.  It  was 
noticeable  that  Miss  Emily  Dorset  began  to  see  a 
deal  more  of  Admiral  Lawless  and  Just  Tratford,  and 
a  deal  less  of  the  younger  Lawless.  One  day  Duke 
Lawless  came  back  to  the  house  unexpectedly,  his 
horse  having  knocked  up  on  the  road.  On  enter¬ 
ing  the  library  he  saw  what  turned  the  course  of  his 
life.” 

Sir  Duke  here  paused,  sighed,  shook  the  ashes 
out  of  his  pipe  with  a  grave  and  expressive  anxiety 
which  did  not  properly  belong  to  the  action,  and 
remained  for  a  moment,  both  arms  on  his  knees, 
silent,  and  looking  at  the  fire.  Then  he  continued  : 

“  Just  Trafford  sat  beside  Emily  Dorset  in  an  at¬ 
titude  of — say,  affectionate  consideration.  She  had 
been  weeping,  and  her  whole  manner  suggested 
very  touching  confidences.  They  both  rose  on  the 
entrance  of  Lawless  ;  but  neither  sought  to  say  a 
word.  What  could  they  say  'i  Lawless  apologized, 


152 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


took  a  book  from  the  table  which  he  had  not  come 
for,  and  left.” 

Again  Sir  Duke  paused. 

“  The  book  was  an  illustrated  Much  Ado  About 
JSfothing''  said  The  Honorable. 

“  A  few  hours  after,  Lawless  had  an  interview 
with  Emily  Dorset.  He  demanded,  with  a  good 
deal  of  feeling,  perhaps, — for  he  was  romantic  enough 
to  love  the  girl, — an  explanation.  He  would  have 
asked  it  of  Trafford  first  if  he  had  seen  him.  She 
said  Lawless  should  trust  her  ;  that  she  had  no  ex¬ 
planation  at  that  moment  to  give.  If  he  waited — • 
but  Lawless  asked  her  if  she  cared  for  him  at  all, 
if  she  wished  or  intended  to  marry  him.  She  replied 
lightly  :  ‘  Perhaps,  when  you  become  Sir  Duke 
Lawless.’  Then  Lawless  accused  her  of  heart¬ 
lessness,  and  of  encouraging  both  his  uncle  and 
Just  Trafford.  She  amusingly  said,  ‘  Perhaps  she 
had,  but  it  really  didn’t  matter,  did  it  ?  ’  For  reply. 
Lawless  said  her  interest  in  the  whole  family  seemed 
active  and  impartial.  He  bade  her  not  vex  her¬ 
self  at  all  about  him,  and  not  to  wait  until  he  be¬ 
came  Sir  Duke  Lawless,  but  to  give  preference  to 
seniority  and  begin  with  the  title  at  once ;  which  he 
has  reason  since  to  believe  that  she  did.  What  he 
said  to  her  he  has  been  sorry  for,  not  because  he 
thinks  it  was  undeserved,  but  because  he  has  never 
been  able  since  to  rouse  himself  to  anger  on  the 
subject,  nor  to  hate  the  girl  and  Just  Trafford  as 
he  ought.  Of  the  dead  he  is  silent  altogether. 
He  never  sought  an  explanation  from  Just  Trafford, 
for  he  left  that  night  for  London,  and  in  two  days 
was  on  his  way  to  Australia.  The  day  he  left, 
however,  he  received  a  note  from  his  banker  saying 


SHON  MCCANN'S  TOBOGGAN  RIDE.  153 

that  ;:^8,ooo  had  been  placed  to  his  credit  by  Admiral 
Lawless.  Feeling  the  indignity  of  what  he  believed 
was  the  cause  of  the  gift,  Lawless  neither  acknowl¬ 
edged  it  nor  used  it,  not  any  penny  of  it.  Four 
years  have  gone  since  then,  and  Lawless  has  wan¬ 
dered  over  two  continents,  a  self-created  exile.  He 
has  learned  much  that  he  didn’t  learn  at  Oxford ; 
and  not  the  least  of  all,  that  the  world  is  not  so  bad 
as  is  claimed  for  it,  that  it  isn’t  worth  while  hating 
and  cherishing  hate,  that  evil  is  half-accidental, 
half-natural,  and  that  hard  work  in  the  face  of 
nature  is  the  thing  to  pull  a  man  together  and 
strengthen  him  for  his  place  in  the  universe.  Hav¬ 
ing  burned  his  ships  behind  him,  that  is  the  way 
Lawless  feels.  And  the  story  is  told.” 

Just  Trafford,  sat  looking  musingly  but  imperturb¬ 
ably  at  Sir  Duke  for  a  minute ;  then  he  said  : 

“  That  is  your  interpretation  of  the  story,  but  not 
the  story.  Let  us  turn  the  medal  over  now.  And, 
first,  let  Trafford  say  that  he  has  the  permission  of 
Emily  Dorset - ” 

Sir  Duke  interrupted  :  “  Of  her  who  was  Emily 

Dorset.” 

“  Of  Miss  Emily  Dorset,  to  tell  what  she  did  not 
tell  that  day  five  years  ago.  After  this  other  read¬ 
ing  of  the  tale  has  been  rendered,  her  letter  and 
those  documents  are  there  for  fuller  testimony. 
Just  Trafford’s  part  in  the  drama  begins,  of  course, 
with  the  library  scene.  Now  Duke  Lawless  had 
never  known  Trafford’s  half-brother.  Hall  Vincent. 
Hall  was  born  in  India,  and  had  lived  there  most 
of  his  life.  He  was  in  the  Indian  Police,  and  had 
married  a  clever,  beautiful,  but  impossible  kind  of 
girl,  against  the  wishes  of  her  parents.  The  mar- 


154 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


riage  was  not  a  very  happy  one.  This  was  partly 
owing  to  the  quick  Lawless  and  Trafford  blood, 
partly  to  the  wife’s  willfulness.  Hall  thought  that 
things  might  go  better  if  he  came  to  England  to  live. 
On  their  way  from  Madras  to  Colombo  he  had  some 
words  with  his  wife  one  day  about  the  way  she 
arranged  her  hair,  but  nothing  serious.  This  was 
shortly  after  tiffin.  That  evening  they  entered  the 
harbor  at  Colombo ;  and  Hall,  going  to  his  cabin 
to  seek  his  wife,  could  not  find  her  ;  but  in  her  stead 
was  her  hair,  arranged  carefully  in  flowing  waves  on 
the  pillow,  where  through  the  voyage  her  head  had 
lain.  That  she  had  cut  it  off  and  laid  it  there  was 
plain  ;  but  she  could  not  be  found,  nor  was  she  ever 
found.  The  large  porthole  was  open  ;  this  was  the 
only  clue.  But  we  need  not  go  further  into  that. 
Hall  Vincent  came  home  to  England.  He  told  his 
brother  the  story  as  it  has  been  told  to  you,  and 
then  left  for  South  America,  a  broken-spirited  man. 
The  wife’s  family  came  on  to  England  also.  They 
did  not  meet  Hall  Vincent ;  but  one  day  Just  Traf- 
ford  met  at  a  country  seat  in  Devon,  for  the  first 
time,  the  wife’s  sister.  She  had  not  known  of  the 
relationship  between  Hall  Vincent  and  the  Traf- 
fords  ;  and  on  a  memorable  afternoon  he  told  her 
the  full  story  of  the  married  life  and  the  final  disas¬ 
ter,  as  Hall  had  told  it  to  him.” 

Sir  Duke  sprang  to  his  feet. 

“  You  mean.  Just,  that - ” 

“  I  mean  that  Emily  Dorset  was  the  sister  of  Hall 
Vincent’s  wife.” 

Sir  Duke’s  brown  fingers  clasped  and  unclasped 
nervously.  He  was  about  to  speak,  but  The  Hon¬ 
orable  said  :  “  That  is  only  half  the  story — wait  I 


SIION  MCCANN’S  TOBOGGAN  RIDE.  155 

“  Emily  Dorset  would  have  told  Lawless  all  in  due 
time,  but  women  don’t  like  to  be  bullied  ever  so  little, 
and  that,  and  the  unhappiness  of  the  thing,  kept  her 
silent  in  her  short  interview  with  Lawless.  She 
could  not  have  guessed  that  Lawless  would  go  as 
he  did.  Now,  the  secret  of  her  diplomacy  with  the 
uncle — diplomacy  is  the  best  word  to  use — was 
Duke  Lawless’s  advancement.  She  knew  how  he 
had  set  his  heart  on  the  ranching  or  planting  life. 
She  would  have  married  him  without  a  penny,  but 
she  felt  his  pride  in  that  particular,  and  respected 
it.  So,  like  a  clever  girl,  she  determined  to  make 
the  old  chap  give  Lawless  a  check  on  his  possible 
future.  Perhaps,  as  things  progressed,  the  same 
old  chap  got  an  absurd  notion  in  his  head  about 
marrying  her  to  Just  Trafford,  but  that  was  mean¬ 
while  all  the  better  for  Lawless.  The  very  day  that 
Emily  Dorset  and  Just  Trafford  succeeded  in  melting 
Admiral  Lawless’s  heart  to  the  tune  of  eight  thou¬ 
sand,  was  the  day  that  Duke  Lawless  doubted  his 
friend  and  challenged  the  loyalty  of  the  girl  he 
loved.” 

Sir  Duke’s  eyes  filled.  “  Great  heaven  !  Just - ” 

he  said. 

“  Be  quiet  for  a  little.  You  see  she  had  taken 
Trafford  into  her  scheme  against  his  will,  for  he  was 
never  good  at  mysteries  and  theatricals,  and  he  saw 
the  danger.  But  the  cause  was  a  good  one,  and  he 
joined  the  sweet  conspiracy,  with  what  result  these 
five  years  bear  witness.  Admiral  Lawless  has  been 
dead  a  year  and  a  half,  his  wife  a  year.  For  he 
married  out  of  anger  with  Duke  Lawless  ;  but  he 
did  not  marry  Emily  Dorset,  nor  did  he  beget  a 
child.” 


156  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

In  Australia  I  saw  a  paragraph  speaking  of  a 
visit  made  by  him  and  Lady  Lawless  to  a  hospital, 
and  I  thought - ” 

“You  thought  he  had  married  Emily  Dorset,  and 
— well,  you  had  better  read  that  letter  now.” 

Sir  Duke’s  face  was  flushing  with  remorse  and 
pain.  He  drew  his  hand  quickly  across  his  eyes. 
“  And  you’ve  given  up  London,  your  profession, 
everything,  just  to  hunt  for  me,  to  tell  me  this — you 
who  would  have  profited  by  my  eternal  absence ! 
What  a  beast  and  ass  I’ve  been  !  ” 

“  Not  at  all ;  only  a  bit  poetical  and  hasty,  which 
is  not  unnatural  in  the  Lawless  blood.  I  should 
have  been  wild  myself,  may  be,  if  I  had  been  in 
your  position  ;  only  I  shouldn’t  have  left  England, 
and  I  should  have  taken  the  papers  regularly  and 
have  asked  the  other  fellow  to  explain.  The  other 
fellow  didn’t  like  the  little  conspiracy.  Women, 
however,  seem  to  find  that  kind  of  thing  a  moral 
necessity.  By  the  way,  I  wish  when  you  go  back 
you’d  send  me  out  my  hunting  traps.  I’ve  made  up 
my  mind  to — oh,  quite  so — read  the  letter — I  for¬ 
got  !  ” 

Sir  Duke  opened  the  letter  and  read  it,  putting  it 
away  from  him  now  and  then  as  if  it  hurt  him,  and 
taking  it  up  a  moment  after  to  continue  the  reading. 
The  Honorable  watched  him. 

At  last  Sir  Duke  rose. 

“  Just - ” 

“  Yes  ?  Go  on.” 

“  Do  you  think  she  would  have  me  now  ?  ” 

“  Don’t  know.  Your  outfit  is  not  so  beautiful  as 
it  used  to  be.” 

“  Don’t  chaff  me.” 


SI/OJV  MCCANN'S  TOBOGGAN  RIDE.  15; 


"  Don’t  be  so  funereal,  then.” 

■  Under  The  Honorable’s  matter-of-fact  air  Sit 
Duke’s  face  began  to  clear.  “  Tell  me,  do  you 
think  she  still  cares  for  me  ?  ” 

“  Well,  I  don’t  know.  She’s  rich  now — got  the 
grandmother’s  stocking.  Then  there’s  Pedley  of 
the  Scots  Guards  ;  he  has  been  doing  loyal  service 
for  a  couple  of  years.  What  does  the  letter 
say  ?  ” 

“  It  only  tells  the  truth,  as  you  have  told  it  to  me, 
but  from  her  standpoint ;  not  a  word  that  says  any¬ 
thing  but  beautiful  reproach  and  general  kindness. 
That  is  all.” 

“  Quite  so.  You  see  it  was  all  four  years  ago,  and 
Pedley - ” 

But  The  Honorable  paused.  He  had  punished 
his  friend  enough.  He  stepped  forward  and  laid 
his  hand  on  Sir  Duke’s  shoulder.  “  Duke,  you 
want  to  pick  up  the  threads  where  they  were 
dropped.  Y ou  dropped  them.  Ask  me  nothing  about 
the  ends  that  Emily  Dorset  held.  I  conspire  no 
more.  But  go  you  and  learn  your  fate.  If  one 
remembers,  why  should  the  other  forget  ?  ” 

Sir  Duke’s  light  heart  and  eager  faith  came  back 
with  a  rush.  “  I’ll  start  for  England  at  once.  I’ll 
know  the  worst  or  the  best  of  it  before  three  months 
are  out.” 

The  Honorable’s  slow  placidity  turned. 

“  Three  months. — Yes,  you  may  do  it  in  that  time. 
Better  go  from  Victoria  to  San  Francisco  and  then 
overland.  You’ll  not  forget  about  my  hunting  traps, 
and — oh,  certainly,  Gordineer  ;  come  in.” 

“  Say,”  said  Gordineer,  “  I  don’t  want  to  disturb 
the  meeting,  but  Shon’s  in  chancery  somehow; 


J 


158  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

breathing  like  a  white  pine,  and  thrashing  about ! 
He’s  red-hot  with  fever.” 

Before  he  had  time  to  say  more,  Sir  Duke  seized 
the  candle  and  entered  the  room,  Shon  was  moving 
uneasily  and  suppressing  the  groans  that  shook  him. 

“  Shon,  old  friend,  what  is  it  ?  ” 

“  It’s  the  pain  here.  Lawless,”  laying  his  hand  on 
his  chest. 

After  a  moment  Sir  Duke  said  :  “  Pneumonia  !  ” 

From  that  instant  thoughts  of  himself  were  sunk 
in  the  care  and  thought  of  the  man  who  in  the  heart 
of  Queensland  had  been  mate  and  friend  andbrother 
to  him.  He  did  not  start  for  England  the  next  day, 
nor  for  many  a  day. 

Pretty  Pierre  and  Jo  Gordineer  and  his  party 
carried  Sir  Duke’s  letters  over  into  the  Pipi  Valley, 
from  where  they  could  be  sent  on  to  the  coast. 
Pierre  came  back  in  a  few  days  to  see  how  Shon  was, 
and  expressed  his  determination  of  staying  to  help 
Sir  Duke,  if  need  be. 

Shon  hovered  between  life  and  death.  It  was  not 
alone  the  pneumonia  that  racked  his  system  so  ; 
there  was  also  the  shock  he  had  received  in  his  flight 
down  the  glacier.  In  his  delirium  he  seemed  to  be 
always  with  Lawless  : — 

“  ‘  For  it’s  down  the  long  side  of  Farcalladen  Rise  ’ 
— It’s  share  and  share  even.  Lawless,  and  ye’ll  ate 
the  rest  of  it,  or  I’ll  lave  ye — Did  ye  say  ye’d  found 
water — Lawless — water  !  — Sure  you’re  drinkin’  none 
yourself — I’ll  sing  it  again  for  you  then — ‘  And  it’s 
back  with  the  ring  of  the  chain  and  the  spur  ’ — ‘  But 
burn  all  your  ships  behind  you  ’ — ‘  I’ll  never  go  back 
to  Farcalladen  more  ’ — God  bless  you,  Lawless  !  ” 

Sir  Duke’s  fingers  had  a  trick  of  kindness,  a  sug- 


SHON  MCCANN'S  TOBOGGAN  RIDE.  159 

gestion  of  comfort,  a  sense  of  healing,  that  made  his 
simple  remedies  do  more  than  natural  duty.  He  was 
doctor,  nurse, — sleepless  nurse, — and  careful  apothe¬ 
cary.  And  when  at  last  the  danger  was  past  and  he 
could  relax  watching,  he  would  not  go,  and  he  did 
not  go,  till  they  could  all  travel  to  the  Pipi  Valley. 

In  the  blue  shadows  of  the  firs  they  stand  as  we 
take  our  leave  of  one  of  them.  The  Honorable  and 
Sir  Duke  have  had  their  last  words,  and  Sir  Duke 
has  said  he  will  remember  about  the  hunting  traps. 
They  understand  each  other.  There  is  sunshine  in 
the  face  of  all — a  kind  of  Indian  summer  sunshine, 
infused  with  the  sadness  of  a  coming  winter  ;  and 
theirs  is  the  winter  of  parting.  Yet  it  is  all  done 
easily,  undemonstratively. 

“We’ll  meet  again,  Shon,”  said  Sir  Duke,  “and 
you’ll  remember  your  promise  to  write  to  me.” 

“  I’ll  keep  my  promise,  and  I  hope  the  news 
that’ll  please  you  best  is  what  you’ll  send  us  first 
from  England.  And  if  you  should  go  to  ould  Don¬ 
egal  ! — I’ve  no  words  for  me  thoughts  at  all !  ” 

“  I  know  them.  Don’t  try  to  say  them.  We’ve 
not  had  the  luck  together,  all  kinds  and  all  weathers, 
for  nothing.” 

Sir  Duke’s  eyes  smiled  a  good-bye  into  the  smiling 
eyes  of  Shon.  They  were  much  alike,  these  two, 
whose  stations  were  so  far  apart.  Yet  somewhere, 
in  generations  gone,  their  ancestors  may  have  toiled, 
feasted,  or  governed,  in  the  same  social  hemisphere  ; 
and  here  in  the  mountains,  life  was  leveled  to  one 
degree  again. 

Sir  Duke  looked  round.  The  pines  were  crowd¬ 
ing  up  elate  and  warm  towards  the  peaks  of  the 
white  silence.  The  river  was  brawling  over  a  broken 


l6o  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

pathway  of  boulders  at  their  feet ;  round  the  edge 
of  a  mighty  mountain  crept  a  mule-train  ;  a  far-off 
glacier  glistened  harshly  in  the  lucid  morning,  yet 
not  harshly  either,  but  with  the  rugged  form  of  a 
vast  antiquity,  from  which  these  scarred  and  grimly 
austere  hills  had  grown.  Here  Nature  was  filled 
with  a  sense  of  triumphant  mastery — the  mastery  of 
ageless  experience.  And  down  the  great  piles  there 
blew  a  wind  of  stirring  life,  of  the  composure  of 
great  strength,  and  touched  the  four,  and  the  man 
that  mounted  now  was  turned  to  go.  A  quick  good¬ 
bye  from  him  to  all ;  a  God-speed-you  from  The 
Honorable  ;  a  wave  of  the  hand  between  the  rider 
and  Shon,  and  Sir  Duke  Lawless  was  gone. 

“  You  had  better  cook  the  last  of  that  bear  this 
morning,  Pierre,”  said  The  Honorable.  And  their 
life  went  on. 

It  was  eight  months  after  that,  sitting  in  their  hut 
after  a  day’s  successful  mining.  The  Honorable 
handed  Shon  a  newspaper  to  read,  A  paragraph 
was  marked.  It  concerned  the  marriage  of  Miss 
Emily  Dorset  and  Sir  Duke  Lawless. 

And  while  Shon  read.  The  Honorable  called  into 
the  tent : — “  Have  you  any  lemons  for  the  whisky, 
Pierre  ?  ” 

A  satisfactory  reply  being  returned.  The  Honor¬ 
able  proceeded  :  “  We’ll  begin  with  the  bottle  of 
Pommery,  which  I’ve  been  saving  months  for  this.” 

And  the  royal-flush  toast  of  the  evening  belonged 
to  Shon. 

“God  bless  him  !  To  the  day  when  we  see  him 
again  !  ” 

And  all  of  them  saw  that  day. 


Pere  CTiampagne. 

“  Is  it  that  we  stand  at  the  top  of  the  hill  and  the 
end  of  the  travel  has  come,  Pierre  ?  Why  don’t 
you  spake  ?  ” 

“We  stand  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  it  is  the 
end.” 

“And  Lonely  Valley  is  at  our  feet  and  Whitefaced 
Mountain  beyond  ?  ” 

“  One  at  our  feet,  and  the  other  beyond,  Shon 
McGann.” 

“  It’s  the  sight  of  my  eyes  I  wish  I  had  in  the 
light  of  the  sun  this  mornin’.  Tell  me,  what  is’t 
you  see  ?  ” 

“  I  see  the  trees  on  the  foot-hills,  and  all  the 
branches  shine  with  frost.  There  is  a  path — so 
wide — between  two  groves  of  pines.  On  White¬ 
faced  Mountain  lies  a  glacier-field  .  .  .  and  all  is 
still.”  ... 

“  The  voice  of  you  is  far-away-like,  Pierre — it 
shivers  as  a  hawk  cries.  It’s  the  wind,  the  wind, 
maybe.” 

“There’s  not  a  breath  of  life  from  the  hill  or 
valley.” 

“  But  I  feel  it  in  my  face.” 

“  It  is  not  the  breath  of  life  you  feel.” 

“Did  you  not  hear  voices  coming  athwart  the 
wind  ?  .  .  .  Can  you  see  the  people  at  the  mines  ?  ” 

■  “  I  have  told  you  what  I  see.” 

11 


i62 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  You  told  me  of  the  pine-trees,  and  the  glacier, 
and  the  snow- - •” 

“  And  that  is  all.” 

“  But  in  the  valley,  in  the  valley,  where  all  the 
miners  are  !  ” 

“  I  cannot  see  them.” 

“  For  love  of  heaven,  don’t  tell  me  that  the  dark 
is  failin’  on  your  eyes  too.” 

“  I  go  not  to  be  blind.” 

“  Will  you  not  tell  me  what  gives  the  ache  to 
your  words  ?  ” 

“  I  see  in  the  valley — snow  .  .  .  snow.” 

‘‘  It’s  a  laugh  you  have  at  me  in  your  cheek,  whin 
I’d  give  years  of  my  ill-spent  life  to  watch  the  chim¬ 
ney  smoke  come  curlin’  up  slow  through  the  sharp 
air  in  the  valley  there  below.” 

“  There  is  no  chimney  and  there  is  no  smoke  in 
all  the  valley.” 

“  Before  God,  if  you’re  a  man,  you’ll  put  your 
hand  on  my  arm  and  tell  me  what  trouble  quakes 
your  speech.” 

“  Shon  McGann,  it  is  for  you  to  make  the  sign  of 
the  Cross  .  .  .  there,  while  I  put  my  hand  on  your 
shoulder — so  !  ” 

“Your  hand  is  heavy,  Pierre.” 

“  This  is  the  sight  of  the  eyes  that  see.  In  the 
valley  there  is  snow  ;  in  the  snow  of  all  that  was, 
there  is  one  poppet-head  of  the  mine  that  was  called 
St.  Gabriel  .  .  .  upon  the  poppet-head  there  is  the 
figure  of  a  woman.” 

“  Ah  !  ” 

“  She  does  not  move - ” 

“  She  will  never  move  ?  ” 

“  She  will  never  move,” 


PE  RE  CHAMPAGNE.  163 

“  The  breath  o’  my  body  hurts  me.  .  .  .  There  is 
death  in  the  valley,  Pierre  ?  ” 

“  There  is  death.” 

“  It  was  an  avalanche — that  path  between  the 
pines  ?  ” 

“  And  a  great  storm  after.” 

“  Blessed  be  God  that  I  cannot  behold  that  thing 
this  day  !  .  .  .  And  the  woman,  Pierre,  the  woman 
aloft  ?  ” 

“  She  went  to  watch  for  some  one  coming,  and  as 
she  watched,  the  avalanche  came — and  she  moves 
not.” 

“  Do  we  know  that  woman  ?  ” 

“  Who  can  tell  ?  ” 

“  What  was  it  you  whispered  soft  to  yourself, 
then,  Pierre  ?  ” 

“  I  whispered  no  word.” 

“  There,  don’t  you  hear  it,  soft  and  sighin’  ?  .  .  . 
JSfathalie  !  ” 

Mon  Dieu  !  It  is  not  of  the  world.” 

“  It’s  facin’  the  poppet-head  where  she  stands  I’d 

be.” 

“Your  face  is  turned  towards  her.” 

“  Where  is  the  sun  }  ” 

“  The  sun  stands  still  above  her  head.” 

“  With  the  bitter  over,  and  the  avil  past,  come 
rest  for  her  and  all  that  lie  there  !  ” 

“  Eh,  bien.,  the  game  is  done.” 

“  If  we  stay  here  we  shall  die  also.” 

“  If  we  go  we  die,  perhaps.” 

“Don’t  spake  it.  We  will  go,  and  we  will  return 
when  summer  comes  from  the  South.” 

“  It  shall  be  so.” 

“  Hush  !  Did  you  not  hear - ?  ” 


i64 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  I  did  not  hear.  I  only  see  an  eagle,  and  it  flies 
towards  Whitefaced  Mountain.” 

And  Shon  McGann  and  Pretty  Pierre  turned  back 
from  the  end  of  their  quest— from  a  mighty  grave 
behind  to  a  lonely  waste  before  ;  and  though  one  was 
snow-blind,  and  the  other  knew  that  on  him  fell  the 
chiefer  weight  of  a  great  misfortune,  for  he  must 
provide  food  and  fire  and  be  as  a  mother  to  his  com¬ 
rade — they  had  courage  ;  without  which,  men  are 
as  the  standing  straw  in  an  unreaped  field  in  winter  ; 
but  having,  become  like  the  hooded  pine,  that 
keepeth  green  in  frost,  and  hath  the  bounding  blood 
in  all  its  icy  branches. 

And  whence  they  came,  and  wherefore,  was  as 
thus  : — 

A  French  Canadian  once  lived  in  Lonely  Valley. 
One  day  great  fortune  came  to  him,  because  it  was 
given  him  to  discover  the  mine  St.  Gabriel.  ^  And 
he  said  to  the  woman  who  loved  him  :  “  I  will  go 

with  mules  and  much  gold,  that  I  have  hewn  and 
washed  and  gathered,  to  a  village  in  the  East  where 
my  father  and  my  mother  are.  They  are  poor,  but 
I  will  make  them  rich  :  and  then  I  will  return  to 
Lonely  Valley,  and  a  priest  shall  come  with  me,  and 
we  will  dwell  here  at  Whitefaced  Mountain,  where 
men  are  men  and  not  children.”  And  the  woman 
blessed  him,  and  prayed  for  him,  and  let  him  go. 

He  traveled  far  through  passes  of  the  mountains, 
and  came  at  last  where  new  cities  lay  upon  the  plains, 
and  where  men  were  full  of  evil  and  of  lust  of  gold. 
And  he  was  free  of  hand  and  light  of  heart ;  and  at  a 
place  called  Diamond  City  false  friends  came  about 
him,  and  gave  him  champagne  wine  to  drink,  and 
struck  him  down  and  robbed  him,  leaving  him  for 
dead. 


PE  RE  CHAMPAGNE. 


165 

And  he  was  found,  and  his  wounds  were  all  healed  : 
all  save  one,  and  that  was  in  the  brain  :  men  called 
him  mad. 

He  wandered  through  the  land,  preaching  to  men 
to  drink  no  w'ine,  and  to  shun  the  sight  of  gold. 
And  they  laughed  at  him,  and  called  him  Pere 
Champagne. 

But  one  day  much  gold  was  found  at  a  place  called 
Reef  o’  Angel ;  and  jointly  with  the  gold  came  a 
plague  which  scars  the  face  and  rots  the  body ;  and 
Indians  died  by  hundreds  and  white  men  by  scores  ; 
and  Pere  Champagne,  of  all  who  were  not  stricken 
down,  feared  nothing,  and  did  not  flee,  but  went 
among  the  sick  and  dying,  and  did  those  deeds  which 
gold  cannot  buy,  and  prayed  those  prayers  which 
were  never  sold.  And  who  can  count  how  high  the 
prayers  of  the  feckless  go  ! 

When  none  was  found  to  bury  the  dead,  he  gave 
them  place  himself  beneath  the  prairie  earth, — con¬ 
secrated  only  by  the  tears  of  a  fool,— and  for 
extreme  unction  he  had  but  this  :  “  God  he  merciful 
to  7ne.,  a  sm7ier  !  ” 

And  it  happily  chanced  that  Pierre  and  Shon 
McCann,  who  traveled  westward,  came  upon  this 
desperate  battle-field,  and  saw  how  Pere  Champagne 
dared  the  elements  of  scourge  and  death  ;  and  they 
paused  and  labored  with  him — to  save  where  saving 
was  granted  of  Heaven,  and  to  bury  when  the  Reaper 
reaped  and  would  not  stay  his  hand.  At  last  the 
plague  ceased,  because  winter  stretched  its  wings  out 
swiftly  o’er  the  plains  from  frigid  ranges  in  the  West. 
And  then  Pere  Champagne  fell  ill  again. 

And  this  last  great  sickness  cured  his  madness  :  and 
he  remembered  whence  he  had  come,  and  what  befell 
him  at  Diamond  City  so  many  moons  ago.  And  he 


1 66  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

prayed  them,  when  he  knew  his  time  was  come, 
that  they  would  go  to  Lonely  Valley  and  tell  his 
story  to  the  woman  whom  he  loved ;  and  say  that  he 
was  going  to  a  strange  but  pleasant  Land,  and  that 
there  he  would  await  her  coming.  And  he  begged 
them  that  they  would  go  at  once,  that  she  might  know, 
and  not  strain  her  eyes  to  blindness,  and  be  sick  at 
heart  because  he  came  not.  And  he  told  them  her 
name,  and  drew  the  coverlet  up  about  his  head  and 
seemed  to  sleep ;  but  he  waked  between  the  day  and 
dark,  and  gently  cried  :  “  The  snow  is  heavy  on  the 
mountain  .  .  .  and  the  valley  is  below  .  .  .  Gardez! 
mon  Pere! .  .  .  Ah,  Nathalie!”  And  they  buried 
him  between  the  dark  and  dawn. 

Though  winds  were  fierce,  and  travel  full  of  peril, 
they  kept  their  word,  and  trailed  along  wide  steppes 
of  snow,  until  they  entered  passes  of  the  mountains, 
and  again  into  the  plains  ;  and  at  last  one  poudred-^y, 
when  frost  was  shaking  like  shreds  of  faintest  silver 
through  the  air,  Shon  McGann’s  sight  fled.  But  he 
would  not  turn  back — a  promise  to  a  dying  man  was 
sacred,  and  he  could  follow  if  he  could  not  lead ;  and 
there  was  still  some  pemmican,  and  there  were 
martens  in  the  woods,  and  wandering  deer  that  good 
spirits  hunted  into  the  way  of  the  needy ;  and 
Pierre’s  finger  along  the  gun  was  sure. 

Pierre  did  not  tell  Shon  that  for  many  days  they 
traveled  woods  where  no  sunshine  entered ;  where 
no  trail  had  ever  been,  nor  foot  of  man  had  trod  : 
that  they  had  lost  their  way.  Nor  did  he  make  his 
comrade  know  that  one  night  he  sat  and  played  a 
game  of  solitaire  to  see  if  they  would  ever  reach  the 
place  called  Lonely  Valley.  Before  the  cards  were 
dealt,  he  made  a  sign  upon  his  breast  and  forehead. 
Three  times  he  played,  and  three  times  he  counted 


PERE  CHAMPAGNE. 


167 

victory ;  and  before  three  suns  had  come  and  gone, 
they  climbed  a  hill  that  perched  over  Lonely  Valley. 
And  of  what  they  saw  and  their  hearts  felt  we  know. 

And  when  they  turned  their  faces  eastward  they 
were  as  men  who  go  to  meet  a  final  and  a  conquering 
enemy;  but  they  had  kept  their  honor  with  the 
man  upon  whose  grave-tree  Shon  McGann  had  carved 
beneath  his  name  these  words  : 

A  Brother  of  Aaron 

Upon  a  lonely  trail  they  wandered,  the  spirits  of 
lost  travelers  hungering  in  their  wake — spirits  that 
mumbled  in  cedar  thickets  and  whimpered  down  the 
flumes  of  snow.  And  Pierre,  who  knew  that  evil 
things  are  exorcised  by  mighty  conjuring,  sang  loudly, 
from  a  throat  made  thin  by  forced  fasting,  a  song  with 
which  his  mother  sought  to  drive  away  the  devils  of 
dreams  that  flaunted  on  his  pillow  when  a  child  :  it 
was  the  song  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter,  And  the  charm 
sufficed ;  for  suddenly  of  a  cheerless  morning  they 
came  upon  a  trapper’s  hut  in  the  wilderness,  where 
their  sufferings  ceased,  and  the  sight  of  Shon’s  eyes 
came  back.  When  strength  returned  also,  they  jour¬ 
neyed  to  an  Indian  village,  where  a  priest  labored  : 
and  him  they  besought;  and  when  spring  came  they 
set  forth  to  Lonely  Valley  again  that  the  woman  and 
the  smothered  dead — if  it  might  chance  so — should 
be  put  away  into  peaceful  graves.  But  thither  coming 
they  only  saw  a  gray  and  churlish  river;  and  the 
poppet-head  of  the  mine  of  St.  Gabriel,  and  she  who 
had  knelt  thereon,  were  vanished  into  solitudes,  where 
only  God’s  cohorts  have  the  rights  of  burial. 

But  the  priest  prayed  humbly  for  their  so  swiftly- 
summoned  souls. 


The  Scarlet  Hunter. 


“News  out  of  Egypt !  ”  said  the  Honorable  Just 
Trafford.  “  If  this  is  true,  it  gives  a  pretty  finish  to 
the  season.  You  think  it  possible,  Pierre?  It  is 
every  man’s  talk  that  there  isn’t  a  herd  of  buffaloes 
in  the  whole  country  ;  but  this — eh  ?  ” 

Pierre  did  not  seem  disposed  to  answer.  He  had 
been  watching  a  man’s  face  for  some  time;  but  his 
eyes  were  now  idly  following  the  smoke  of  his  cigar¬ 
ette  as  it  floated  away  to  the  ceiling  in  fading  circles. 
He  seemed  to  take  no  interest  in  Trafford’s  remarks, 
nor  in  the  tale  that  Shangi  the  Indian  had  told  them  ; 
though  Shangi  and  his  tale  were  both  uncommon 
enough  to  justify  attention. 

Shon  McGann  was  more  impressionable.  His 
eyes  swam ;  his  feet  shifted  nervously  with  enjoy¬ 
ment  ;  he  glanced  frequently  at  his  gun  in  the  corner 
of  the  hut ;  he  had  watched  Prafford’s  face  with 
some  anxiety,  and  accepted  the  result  of  the  tale 
with  delight.  Now  his  look  was  occupied  with  Pierre. 

Pierre  was  a  pretty  good  authority  in  all  matters 
concerning  the  prairies  and  the  North.  He  also  had 
an  instinct  for  detecting  veracity,  having  practised 
on  both  sides  of  the  equation.  Trafford  became 
impatient,  and  at  last  the  half-breed,  conscious  that 
he  had  tried  the  temper  of  his  chief  so  far  as  was 
safe,  lifted  his  eyes,  and,  resting  them  casually  on 
the  Indian,  replied :  “  Yes,  I  know  the  place.  .  .  . 


THE  SC  A  E  LET  HUNTER. 


169 


No,  I  have  not  been  there,  but  I  was  told — ah,  it 
was  long  ago.  There  is  a  great  valley  between  hills, 
the  Kiinash  Hills,  the  hills  of  the  Mighty  Men,  The 
woods  are  deep  and  dark ;  there  is  but  one  trail 
through  them,  and  it  is  old.  On  the  highest  hill  is 
a  vast  mound.  In  that  mound  are  the  forefathers 
of  a  nation  that  is  gone.  Yes,  as  you  say,  they  are 
dead,  and  there  is  none  of  them  alive  in  the  valley — • 
which  is  called  the  White  V alley — -where  the  buffalo 
are.  The  valley  is  green  in  summer,  and  the  snow 
is  not  deep  in  winter  ;  the  noses  of  the  buffalo  can 
find  the  tender  grass.  The  Injin  speaks  the  truth, 
perhaps.  But  of  the  number  of  buffaloes,  one  must 
see.  The  eye  of  the  red  man  multiplies.” 

Trafford  looked  at  Pierre  closely.  “You  seem  to 
know  the  place  very  well.  It  is  a  long  way  north 
where — ah,  yes,  you  said  you  had  never  been  there  ; 
you  were  told.  Who  told  you  ?  ” 

The  half-breed  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly  as  he 
replied  :  “  I  can  remember  a  long  time,  and  my 
mother,  she  spoke  much  and  sang  many  songs  at 
the  camp  fires.”  Then  he  puffed  his  cigarette  so 
that  the  smoke  clouded  his  face  for  a  moment,  and 
went  on, — “I  think  there  may  be  buffaloes.” 

“  It’s  along  the  barrel  of  me  gun  I  wish  I  was 
lookin’  at  thim  now,”  said  McGann. 

“  Eh,  you  will  go  ?  ”  inquired  Pierre  of  Trafford. 

“To  have  a  shot  at  the  only  herd  of  Vv^ild  buffaloes 
on  the  continent !  Of  course  I’ll  go.  I’d  go  to  the 
North  Pole  for  that.  Sport  and  novelty  I  came  here 
to  see;  buffalo-hunting  I  did  not  expect!  I’m  in 
luck,  that’s  all.  We’ll  start  to-morrow  morning,  if 
we  can  get  ready,  and  Shangi  here  will  lead  us  ;  eh, 
Pierre  ?  ” 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


170 

The  half-breed  again  was  not  polite.  Instead  of 
replying  he  sang  almost  below  his  breath  the  words 
of  a  song  unfamiliar  to  his  companions,  though  the 
Indian’s  eyes  showed  a  flash  of  understanding. 
These  were  the  words  : 

“  They  ride  away  with  a  waking  wind, — away,  away  ! 

With  laughing  lip  and  with  jocund  mind  at  break  of  day. 

A  rattle  of  hoofs  and  a  snatch  of  song, — they  ride,  they  ride  1 

The  plains  are  wide  and  the  path  is  long, — so  long,  so  wide  !  ” 

Just  TrafEord  appeared  ready  to  deal  with  this  in¬ 
solence,  for  the  half-breed  was  after  all  a  servant  of 
his,  a  paid  retainer.  He  waited,  however.  Shon 
saw  the  difficulty,  and  at  once  volunteered  a  reply. 
“  It’s  aisy  enough  to  get  away  in  the  mornin’,  but 
it’s  a  question  how  far  we’ll  be  able  to  go  with  the 
horses.  The  year  is  late ;  but  there’s  dogs  beyand, 
I  suppose,  and  bedad,  there  y’  are  !  ” 

The  Indian  spoke  slowly :  “  It  is  far  off.  There  is 
no  color  yet  in  the  leaf  of  the  larch.  The  river- 
hen  still  swims  northward.  It  is  good  that  we  go. 
There  is  much  buffalo  in  the  White  Valley.” 

Again  Trafford  looked  towards  his  follower,  and 
again  the  half-breed,  as  if  he  were  making  an  effort 
to  remember,  sang  abstractedly  : 

“  They  follow,  they  follow  a  lonely  trail,  by  day,  by  night. 

By  distant  sun,  and  by  fire-fly  pale,  and  northern  light. 

The  ride  to  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men,  so  swift  they  go  I 

Where  buffalo  feed  in  the  wilding  glen  in  sun  and  snow.” 

“  Pierre  !  ”  said  Trafford  sharply,  “  I  want  an 
answer  to  my  question.” 

“  Mais,  pardon.,  I  was  thinking  .  .  .  well,  we  can 
ride  until  the  deep  snows  come,  then  we  can  walk  ; 
and  Shangi,  he  can  get  the  dogs,  maybe,  one  team 
of  dogs.” 


THE  SC  A  RLE  T  HUNTER.  1 7 1 

“  But,”  was  the  reply,  “  one  team  of  dogs  will  not 
be  enough.  We’ll  bring  meat  and  hides,  you  know, 
as  well  as  pemmican.  We  won’t  cache  any  carcases 
up  there.  What  would  be  the  use  ?  We  shall 
have  to  be  back  in  the  Pipi  Valley  by  the  spring¬ 
time.” 

“  Well,”  said  the  half-breed  with  a  cold  decision, 
“  one  team  of  dogs  will  be  enough  ;  and  we  will  not 
cache.,  and  we  shall  be  back  in  the  Pipi  Valley  before 
the  spring,  perhaps,” — but  this  last  word  was  spoken 
under  his  breath. 

And  now  the  Indian  spoke,  with  his  deep  voice 
and  dignified  manner :  “  Brothers,  it  is  as  I  have 
said, — the  trail  is  lonely  and  the  woods  are  deep  and 
dark.  Since  the  time  when  the  world  was  young,  no 
white  man  hath  been  there  save  one,  and  behold 
sickness  fell  on  him  ;  the  grave  is  his  end.  It  is  a 
pleasant  land,  for  the  gods  have  blessed  it  to  the 
Indian  forever.  No  heathen  shall  possess  it.  But 
you  shall  see  the  White  Valley  and  the  buffalo. 
Shangi  will  lead,  because  you  have  been  merciful  to 
him,  and  have  given  him  to  sleep  in  your  wigwam, 
and  to  eat  of  your  wild  meat.  There  are  dogs  in  the 
forest.  I  have  spoken.” 

Trafford  was  impressed,  and  annoyed  too.  He 
thought  too  much  sentiment  was  being  squandered 
on  a  very  practical  and  sportive  thing.  He  disliked 
functions  ;  speech-making  was  to  him  a  matter  for 
prayer  and  fasting.  The  Indian’s  address  was 
therefore  more  or  less  gratuitous,  and  he  hastened 
to  remark  :  “  Thank  you,  Shangi ;  that’s  very  good, 
and  you’ve  put  it  poetically.  You’ve  turned  a  shoot¬ 
ing-excursion  into  a  mediaeval  romance.  But  we’ll 
get  down  to  business  now,  if  you  please,  and  make 


172 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


the  romance  a  fact,  beautiful  enough  to  send  to  the 
Times  or  the  New  York  Sim.  Let’s  see,  how  would 
they  put  it  in  the  Sun  ? — ‘  Extraordinary  Discovery 
— Herd  of  buffaloes  found  in  the  far  North  by  an 
Englishman  and  his  Franco-Irish  Party — Sport  for 
the  gods — Exodus  of  hrules  to  White  Valley  !  ’ — and 
so  on,  screeching  to  the  end.” 

Shon  laughed  heartily.  “  The  fun  of  the  world  is 
in  the  thing,”  he  said ;  “  and  a  day  it  would  be  for  a 
notch  on  a  stick  and  a  rasp  of  gin  in  the  throat. 
And  if  I  get  the  sight  of  me  eye  on  a  buffalo-ruck, 
it’s  down  on  me  knees  I’ll  go,  and  not  for  prayin’ 
aither  !  And  here’s  both  hands  up  for  a  start  in 
the  mornin’ !  ” 

Long  before  noon  next  day  they  were  well  on  their 
way.  Trafford  could  not  understand  why  Pierre 
was  so  reserved,  and,  when  speaking,  so  ironical.  It 
was  noticeable  that  the  half-breed  watched  the  In¬ 
dian  closely,  that  he  always  rode  behind  him,  that 
he  never  drank  out  of  the  same  cup.  The  leader  set 
this  down  to  the  natural  uncertainty  of  Pierre’s  dis¬ 
position.  He  had  grown  to  like  Pierre,  as  the  latter 
had  come  in  course  to  respect  him.  Each  was  a 
man  of  value  after  his  kind.  Each  also  had  recog¬ 
nized  in  the  other  qualities  of  force  and  knowl¬ 
edge  having  their  generation  in  experiences  which 
had  become  individuality,  subterranean  and  acute, 
under  a  cold  surface.  It  was  the  mutual  recogni¬ 
tion  of  these  equivalents  that  led  the  two  men  to 
mutual  trust,  only  occasionally  disturbed,  as  has 
been  shown  ;  though  one  was  regarded  as  the  most 
fastidious  man  of  his  set  in  London,  the  fairest 
minded  of  friends,  the  most  comfortable  of  compan¬ 
ions  ;  while  the  other  was  an  outlaw,  a  half  heathen, 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER. 


173 


a  lover  of  but  one  thing  in  this  world, — the  joyous 
god  of  Chance.  Pierre  was  essentially  a  gamester. 
He  would  have  extracted  satisfaction  out  of  a  death 
sentence  which  was  contingent  on  the  trumping  of 
an  ace.  His  only  honor  was  the  honor  of  the  game. 

Now,  with  all  the  swelling  prairie  sloping  to  the 
clear  horizon,  and  the  breath  of  a  large  life  in  their 
nostrils,  these  two  men  were  caught  up  suddenly,  as 
it  were,  by  the  throbbing  soul  of  the  North,  so  that 
the  subterranean  life  in  them  awoke  and  startled 
them.  Trafford  conceived  that  tobacco  was  the 
charm  with  which  to  exorcise  the  spirits  of  the  past. 
Pierre  let  the  game  of  sensations  go  on,  knowing 
that  they  pay  themselves  out  in  time.  His  scheme 
was  the  wiser.  The  other  found  that  fast  riding  and 
smoking  were  not  sufficient.  He  became  surround¬ 
ed  by  the  ghosts  of  yesterday  ;  and  at  length  he 
gave  up  striving  with  them,  and  let  them  storm  upon 
him,  until  a  line  of  pain  cut  deeply  across  his  fore¬ 
head,  and  bitterly  and  unconsciously  he  cried  aloud, 
— “  Hester,  ah,  Hester  !  ” 

But  having  spoken,  the  spell  was  broken,  and  he 
was  aware  of  the  beat  of  hoofs  beside  him,  and 
Shangi  the  Indian  looking  at  him  with  a  half  smile. 
Something  in  the  look  thrilled  him  ;  it  was  fantastic, 
masterful.  He  wondei'ed  that  he  had  not  noticed 
this  singular  influence  before.  After  all,  he  was 
only  a  savage  with  cleaner  buckskin  than  his  race 
usually  wore.  Yet  that  glow,  that  power  in  the  face  ! 
— was  he  Piegan,  Blackfoot,  Cree,  Blood  ?  What¬ 
ever  he  was,  this  man  had  heard  the  words  which 
broke  so  painfully  from  him. 

He  saw  the  Indian  frame  her  name  upon  his  lips, 
and  then  came  the  words,  “  Hester — Hester  Orval !  ’* 


174 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


He  turned  sternly,  and  said,  “  Who  are  you  ? 
What  do  you  know  of  Hester  Orval  ?  ” 

The  Indian  shook  his  head  gravely,  and  replied, 
“  You  spoke  her  name,  my  brother.” 

“  I  spoke  one  word  of  her  name.  You  have 
spoken  two.” 

“  One  does  not  know  what  one  speaks.  There 
are  words  which  are  as  sounds,  and  words  which  are 
as  feelings.  Those  come  to  the  brain  through  the 
ear ;  these  to  the  soul  through  sign,  which  is  more 
than  sound.  The  Indian  hath  knowledge,  even  as 
the  white  man  ;  and  because  his  heart  is  open,  the 
trees  whisper  to  him  ;  he  reads  the  language  of  the 
grass  and  the  wind,  and  is  taught  by  the  song  of 
the  bird,  the  screech  of  the  hawk,  the  bark  of  the 
fox.  And  so  he  comes  to  know  the  heart  of  the  man 
who  hath  sickness,  and  calls  upon  some  one,  even 
though  it  be  a  weak  woman,  to  cure  his  sickness; 
who  is  bowed  low  as  beside  a  grave,  and  would  stand 
upright.  Are  not  my  words  wise?  As  the  thoughts 
of  a  child  that  dreams,  as  the  face  of  the  blind,  the 
eye  of  the  beast,  or  the  anxious  hand  of  the  poor, — 
are  they  not  simple,  and  to  be  understood  ?  ” 

Just  Trafford  made  no  reply.  But  behind,  Pierre 
was  singing  in  the  plaintive  measure  of  a  chant : 

“  A  hunter  rideth  the  herd  abreast, 

The  Scarlet  Hunter  from  out  of  the  West, 

Whose  arrows  with  points  of  flame  are  drest, 

Who  loveth  the  beast  of  the  held  the  best, 

The  child  and  the  young  bird  out  of  the  nest : 

They  ride  to  the  hunt  no  more  —  no  more  !  ” 

They  traveled  beyond  all  bounds  of  civilization  ; 
beyond  the  northernmost  Indian  villages,  until  the 
features  of  the  landscape  became  more  rugged  and 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER.  175 

solemn,  and  at  last  they  paused  at  a  place  which  the 
Indian  called  Misty  Mountain,  and  where,  disap¬ 
pearing  for  an  hour,  he  returned  with  a  team  of 
Eskimo  dogs,  keen,  quick-tempered,  and  enduring. 
They  had  all  now  recovered  from  the  disturbing 
sentiments  of  the  first  portion  of  the  journey  ;  life 
was  at  full  tide;  the  spirit  of  the  hunter  was  on 
them. 

At  length  one  night  they  camped  in  a  vast  pine 
grove  wrapped  in  coverlets  of  snow  and  silent  as 
death.  Here  again  Pierre  became  moody  and  alert 
and  took  no  part  in  the  careless  chat  at  the  camp¬ 
fire  led  by  Shon  McGann.  The  man  brooded  and 
looked  mysterious.  Mystery  was  not  pleasing  to 
Trafford.  He  had  his  own  secrets,  but  in  the  ordi¬ 
nary  affairs  of  life  he  preferred  simplicity.  In  one  of 
the  silences  that  fell  between  Shon’s  attempts  to  give 
hilarity  to  the  occasion,  there  came  a  rumbling  far-off 
sound,  a  sound  that  increased  in  volume  till  the  earth 
beneath  them  responded  gently  to  the  vibration. 
Trafford  looked  up  inquiringly  at  Pierre,  and  then  at 
the  Indian,  who,  after  a  moment,  said  slowly :  “  Above 
us  are  the  hills  of  the  Mighty  Men,  beneath  us  is 
the  White  Valley.  It  is  the  tramp  of  buffalo  that 
we  hear.  A  storm  is  coming,  and  they  go  to  shelter 
in  the  mountains.” 

The  information  had  come  somewhat  suddenly, 
and  McGann  was  the  first  to  recover  from  the  pleas¬ 
ant  shock:  “It’s  divil  a  wink  of  sleep  I’ll  get  this 
night,  with  the  thought  of  them  below  there  ripe  for 
slaughter,  and  the  tumble  of  fight  in  their  beards.” 

Pierre,  with  a  meaning  glance  from  his  half-closed 
eyes,  added :  “  But  it  is  the  old  saying  of  the 
prairies  that  you  do  not  shout  dinner  till  you  have 


176  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

your  knife  in  the  loaf.  Your  knife  is  not  yet  in  the 
loaf,  Shon  McGann.” 

The  boom  of  the  tramping  ceased,  and  now  there 
was  a  stirring  in  the  snow-clad  tree-tops,  and  a  sound 
as  if  all  the  birds  of  the  North  were  flying  overhead. 
The  weather  began  to  moan  and  the  boles  of  the 
pines  to  quake.  And  then  there  came  war, — a 
trouble  out  of  the  north, — a  wave  of  the  breath  of 
God  to  show  inconsequent  man  that  he  who  seeks 
to  live  by  slaughter  hath  slaughter  for  his  master. 

They  hung  over  the  fire  while  the  forest  cracked 
round  them,  and  the  flame  smarted  with  the  flying 
snow.  And  now  the  trees,  as  if  the  elements  were 
closing  in  on  them,  began  to  break  close  by,  and  one 
plunged  forward  towards  them.  Trafford,  to  avoid 
its  stroke,  .stepped  quickly  aside  right  into  the  line  of 
another  which  he  did  not  see.  Pierre  sprang  for¬ 
ward  and  swung  him  clear,  but  was  himself  struck 
senseless  by  an  outreaching  branch. 

As  if  satisfied  wifh  this  achievement,  the  storm 
began  to  subside.  When  Pierre  recovered  conscious¬ 
ness  Trafford  clasped  his  hand  and  said, — “  You’ve  a 
sharp  eye,  a  quick  thought,  and  a  deft  arm,  com¬ 
rade.” 

“  Ah,  it  was  in  the  game.  It  is  good  play  to  assist 
your  partner,”  the  half-breed  replied  sententiously. 

Through  all,  the  Indian  had  remained  stoical.  But 
McGann,  who  swore  by  Trafford — as  he  had  once 
sworn  by  another  of  the  Trafford  race — had  his  heart 
on  his  lips,  and  said  : 

“  There’s  a  swate  little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft, 

Who  cares  for  the  soul  of  poor  Jack  I  ” 

It  was  long  after  midnight  ere  they  settled  down 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER. 


177 


again,  with  the  wreck  of  the  forest  round  them. 
Only  the  Indian  slept ;  the  others  were  alert  and 
restless.  They  were  up  at  daybreak,  and  on  their  way 
before  sunrise,  filled  with  desire  for  prey.  They  had 
not  traveled  far  before  they  emerged  upon  a  plateau. 
Around  them  were  the  hills  of  the  Mighty  Men — 
austere,  majestic  ;  at  their  feet  was  a  vast  valley  on 
which  the  light  newly-fallen  snow  had  not  hidden  all 
the  grass.  Lonely  and  lofty,  it  was  a  world  waiting 
chastely  to  be  peopled !  And  now  it  was  peopled, 
for  there  came  from  a  cleft  of  the  hills  an  army  of 
buffaloes  lounging  slowly  down  the  waste,  with  toss¬ 
ing  manes  and  hoofs  stirring  the  snow  into  a  feathery 
scud. 

The  eyes  of  Trafford  and  McGann  swam  ;  Pierre’s 
face  was  troubled,  and  strangely  enough  he  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross. 

At  that  instant  Trafford  saw  smoke  issuing  from  a 
spot  on  the  mountain  opposite.  He  turned  to  the 
Indian  :  “  Some  one  lives  there  "i  ”  he  said. 

“  It  is  the  home  of  the  dead,  but  life  is  also  there.” 

“  White  man,  or  Indian  ” 

But  no  reply  came.  The  Indian  pointed  instead 
to  the  buffalo  rumbling  down  the  valley.  Trafford 
forgot  the  smoke,  forgot  everything  except  that 
splendid  quarry.  Shon  was  excited.  “  Sarpints 
alive  !  ”  he  said,  “  look  at  the  troops  of  thim  !  Is  it 
standin’  here  we  are  with  our  tongues  in  our  cheeks, 
whin  there’s  bastes  to  be  killed,  and  mate  to  be  got, 
and  the  call  to  war  on  the  ground  below  !  Clap 
spurs  with  your  heels,  say  I,  and  down  the  side  of 
the  turf  together  and  give  ’em  the  teeth  of  our  guns  !  ” 
And  the  Irishman  dashed  down  the  slope.  In  an 
instant,  all  followed,  or  at  least  Trafford  thought  all 

12 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


178 

followed,  swinging  their  guns  across  their  saddles  to 
be  ready  for  this  excellent  foray.  But  while  Pierre 
rode  hard,  it  was  at  first  without  the  fret  of  battle  in 
him,  and  he  smiled  strangely,  for  he  knew  that  the 
Indian  had  disappeared  as  they  rode  down  the  slope, 
though  how  and  why  he  could  not  tell.  There  ran 
through  his  head  tales  chanted  at  camp-fires  when  he 
was  not  yet  in  stature  so  high  as  the  loins  that  bore 
him.  They  rode  hard,  and  yet  they  came  no  nearer 
to  that  flying  herd  straining  on  with  white  streaming 
breath  and  the  surf  of  snow  rising  to  their  quarters. 
Mile  upon  mile,  and  yet  they  could  not  ride  these 
monsters  down  ! 

And  now  Pierre  was  leading.  There  was  a  kind 
of  fury  in  his  face,  and  he  seemed  at  last  to  gain  on 
them.  But  as  the  herd  veered  close  to  a  wall  of 
stalwart  pines,  a  horseman  issued  from  the  trees  and 
joined  the  cattle.  The  horseman  was  in  scarlet  from 
head  to  foot ;  and  with  his  coming  the  herd  went 
faster,  and  ever  faster,  until  they  vanished  into  the 
mountain-side  ;  and  they  who  pursued  drew  in  their 
trembling  horses  and  stared  at  each  other  with 
wonder  in  their  faces. 

“  In  God’s  name  what  does  it  mean  ?  ”  Traiford 
cried. 

Is  it  a  trick  av  the  eye  or  the  hand  of  the  divil?  ’’ 
added  Shon. 

‘‘  In  the  name  of  God  we  shall  know  perhaps.  If 
it  is  the  hand  of  the  devil  it  is  not  good  for  us,’^ 
remarked  Pierre. 

“  Who  was  the  man  in  scarlet  that  came  from  the 
woods  t  ”  asked  Trafford  of  the  halt-breed. 

“  Eh,  it  is  strange  !  There  is  an  old  story  among 
the  Indians  !  My  mother  told  many  tales  of  the 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER. 


179 


place  and  sang  of  it,  as  I  sang  to  you.  The  legend 
was  this  : — In  the  hills  of  the  North  which  no  white 
man,  nor  no  Injin  of  this  time  hath  seen,  the  fore¬ 
fathers  of  the  red  men  sleep  ;  but  some  day  they  will 
wake  again  and  go  forth  and  possess  all  the  land; 
and  the  buffalo  are  for  them  when  that  time  shall 
come,  that  they  may  have  the  fruits  of  the  chase,  and 
that  it  be  as  it  was  of  old,  when  the  cattle  were  as 
clouds  on  the  sky-line.  And  it  was  ordained  that 
one  of  these  mighty  men  who  had  never  been  beaten 
in  fight,  nor  done  an  evil  thing,  and  was  the  great¬ 
est  of  all  the  chiefs,  should  live  and  not  die,  but 
be  as  a  sentinel,  as  a  lion  watching,  and  preserve  the 
White  Valley  in  peace  until  his  brethren  waked  and 
came  into  their  own  again.  And  him  they  called 
the  Scarlet  Hunter;  and  to  this  hour  the  red  men 
pray  to  him  when  they  lose  their  way  upon  the  plains, 
or  Death  draws  aside  the  curtains  of  the  wigwam  to 
call  them  forth.” 

“  Repeat  the  verses  you  sang,  Pierre,”  said 
Trafford. 

The  half-breed  did  so.  When  he  came  to  the  words, 
“  Who  loveth  the  beast  of  the  field  the  best,”  the 
Englishman  looked  round.  “  Where  is  Shangi  ?  ” 
he  said. 

McGann  shook  his  head  in  astonishment  and 
negation.  Pierre  explained  :  “  On  the  mountain¬ 

side  where  we  ride  down  he  is  not  seen — he  van¬ 
ished  .  .  .  mon  DiciL  look  !  ” 

On  the  slope  of  the  mountain  stood  the  Scarlet 
Hunter  with  drawn  bow.  From  it  an  arrow  flew 
over  their  heads  with  a  sorrowful  twangs  and  fell 
where  the  smoke  rose  among  the  pines  ;  then  the 
mystic  figure  disappeared. 


l8o  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE, 

McGann  shuddered,  and  drew  himself  together. 
“  It  is  the  place  of  spirits,”  he  said  ;  “  and  it’s  little 
I  like  it,  God  knows  ;  but  I’ll  follow  that  Scarlet 
Hunter,  or  red  devil,  or  whatever  he  is,  till  I  drop, 
if  The  Honorable  gives  the  word.  For  flesh  and 
blood  I’m  not  afraid  of ;  and  the  other  we  come  to, 
whether  we  will  or  not,  one  day.” 

But  Trafford  said  :  “  No,  we’ll  let  it  stand  where 

it  is  for  the  present.  Something  has  played  our  eyes 
false,  or  we’re  brought  here  to  do  work  different 
from  buffalo-hunting.  Where  that  arrow  fell  among 
the  smoke  we  must  go  first.  Then,  as  I  read  the 
riddle,  we  travel  back  the  way  we  came.  There  are 
points  in  connection  with  the  Pipi  Valley  superior  to 
the  hills  of  the  Mighty  Men.” 

They  rode  away  across  the  glade,  and  through 
a  grove  of  pines  upon  a  hill,  till  they  stood  before  a 
log  hut,  with  parchment  windows. 

Trafford  knocked,  but  there  was  no  response. 
He  opened  the  door  and  entered.  He  saw  a  figure 
rise  painfully  from  a  couch  in  a  corner, — the  figure 
of  a  woman  young  and  beautiful,  but  wan  and  worn. 
She  seemed  dazed  and  inert  with  suffering,  and 
spoke  mournfully  :  “  It  is  too  late.  Not  you,  nor 
any  of  your  race,  nor  anything  on  earth  can  save 
him.  He  is  dead — dead  now.” 

At  the  first  sound  of  her  voice  Trafford  started. 
He  drew  near  to  her,  as  pale  as  she  was,  and  won¬ 
der  and  pity  were  in  his  face.  “  Hester,”  he  said, 
“  Hester  Orval !  ” 

She  stared  at  him  like  one  that  had  been  awakened 
from  an  evil  dream,  then  tottered  towards  him  with 
the  cry, — “  Just,  Just,  have  you  come  to  save  me  ? 
O,  Just !  ”  His  distress  was  sad  to  see,  for  it  was 


THE  SC  A  RLE  T  HUNTER.  1 8 1 

held  in  deep  repression,  but  he  said  calmly  and  with 
protecting  gentleness:  “Yes,  I  have  come  to  save 
you.  Hester,  how  is  it  you  are  here  in  this  strange 
place  ? — you  !  ” 

She  sobbed  so  that  at  first  she  could  not  answer  5 
but  at  last  she  cried  :  “  O,  Just,  he  is  dead  ...  in 
there,  in  there  !  .  .  .  Last  night,  it  was  last  night ; 
and  he  prayed  that  I  might  go  with  him.  But  I 
could  not  die  unforgiven, — and  I  was  right,  for  you 
have  come  out  of  the  world  to  help  me,  and  to  save 
me.” 

“  Yes,  to  help  you  and  to  save  you, — if  I  can,”  he 
added  in  a  whisper  to  himself,  for  he  was  full  of 
foreboding.  He  was  of  the  earth,  earthy,  and  things 
that  had  chanced  to  him  this  day  were  beyond  the 
natural  and  healthy  movements  of  his  mind.  He 
had  gone  forth  to  slay,  and  had  been  foiled  by  shad¬ 
ows  ;  he  had  come  with  a  tragic,  if  beautiful  memory 
haunting  him,  and  that  memory  had  clothed  itself 
in  flesh  and  stood  before  him,  pitiful,  solitary  —  a 
woman.  He  had  scorned  all  legend  and  supersti¬ 
tion,  and  here  both  were  made  manifest  to  him. 
He  had  thought  of  this  woman  as  one  who  was  of 
this  world  no  more,  and  here  she  mourned  before 
him  and  bade  him  go  and  look  upon  her  dead,  upon 
the  man  who  had  wronged  him,  into  whom,  as  he 
once  declared,  the  soul  of  a  cur  had  entered, — and 
now  what  could  he  say }  He  had  carried  in  his 
heart  the  infinite  something  that  is  to  men  the  ut¬ 
most  fullness  of  life,  which,  losing,  they  must  carry 
lead  upon  their  shoulders  where  they  thought  the 
gods  had  given  pinions. 

McGann  and  Pierre  were  nervous.  This  conjunc¬ 
tion  of  unusual  things  was  easier  to  the  intelligences 


i82 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


of  the  dead  than  the  quick.  The  outer  air  was 
perhaps  less  charged  with  the  unnatural,  and  with  a 
glance  towards  the  room  where  death  was  quartered, 
they  left  the  hut, 

Trafford  was  alone  with  the  woman  through  whon? 
his  life  had  been  turned  awry.  He  looked  at  her 
searchingly ;  and  as  he  looked  the  mere  man  in  him 
asserted  itself  for  a  moment.  She  was  dressed  in 
coarse  garments ;  it  struck  him  that  her  grief  had  a 
touch  of  commonness  about  it ;  there  was  something 
imperfect  in  the  dramatic  setting.  His  recent  ex¬ 
periences  had  had  a  kind  of  grandeur  about  them  ; 
it  was  not  thus  that  he  had  remembered  her  in  the 
hour  when  he  had  called  upon  her  in  the  plains, 
and  the  Indian  had  heard  his  cry.  He  felt  and 
was  ashamed  in  feeling,  that  there  was  a  grim 
humor  in  the  situation.  The  fantastic,  the  melo¬ 
dramatic,  the  emotional,  were  huddled  here  in  too 
marked  a  prominence  ;  it  all  seemed,  for  an  instant, 
like  the  tale  of  a  woman’s  first  novel.  But  im¬ 
mediately  again  there  was  roused  in  him  the  latent 
force  of  loyalty  to  himself  and  therefore  to  her  ;  the 
story  of  her  past,  so  far  as  he  knew  it,  flashed  before 
him,  and  his  eyes  grew  hot. 

He  remembered  the  time  he  had  last  seen  her  in  an 
English  country-house  among  a  gay  party  in  which 
royalty  smiled,  and  the  subject  was  content  beneath 
the  smile.  But  there  was  one  rebellious  subject  and 
her  name  was  Hester  Orval.  She  was  a  willful  girl 
who  had  lived  life  selfishly  within  the  lines  of  that 
decorous  yet  pleasant  convention  to  which  she  was 
born.  She  was  beautiful, — she  knew  that,  and  royalty 
had  graciously  admitted  it.  She  was  warm-thoughted, 
and  possessed  the  fatal  strain  of  the  artistic  tempera- 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER.  183 

ment.  She  was  not  sure  that  she  had  a  heart ;  and 
many  others,  not  of  her  sex,  after  varying  and 
enthusiastic  study  of  the  matter,  were  not  more  con¬ 
fident  than  she.  But  it  had  come  at  last  that  she  had 
listened  with  pensive  pleasure  to  Trafford’s  tale  of 
love ;  and  because  to  be  worshiped  by  a  man  high 
in  all  men’s  and  in  most  women’s  esteem,  ministered 
delicately  to  her  sweet  egotism,  and  because  she  was 
proud  of  him,  she  gave  him  her  hand  in  promise,  and 
her  cheek  in  privilege,  but  denied  him — though  he 
knew  this  not — her  heart  and  the  service  of  her  life. 
But  he  was  content  to  wait  patiently  for  that  service, 
and  he  wholly  trusted  her,  for  there  was  in  him  some 
fine  spirit  of  the  antique  world. 

There  had  come  to  Falkenstowe,  this  country-house 
and  her  father’s  home,  a  man  who  bore  a  knightly 
name,  but  who  had  no  knightly  heart ;  and  he  told 
Ulysses’  tales,  and  covered  a  hazardous  and  cloudy 
past  with  that  fascinating  color  which  makes  evil 
appear  to  be  good,  so  that  he  roused  in  her  the  pulse 
of  art,  which  she  believed  was  soul  and  life,  and  her 
allegiance  swerved.  And  when  her  mother  pleaded 
with  her,  and  when  her  father  said  stern  things,  and 
even  royalty,  with  uncommon  use,  rebuked  her  gently, 
her  heart  grew  hard ;  and  almost  on  the  eve  of  her 
wedding-day  she  fled  with  her  lover,  and  married 
him,  and  together  they  sailed  away  over  the  seas. 

The  world  was  shocked  and  clamorous  for  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  nine  days,  and  then  it  forgot  this  foolish  and 
awkward  circumstance ;  but  Just  Trafford  never 
forgot  it.  He  remembered  all  vividly  until  the  hour, 
a  year  later,  when  London  journals  announced  that 
Hester  Orval  and  her  husband  had  gone  down  with 
a  vessel  wrecked  upon  the  Alaskan  and  Canadian 


184 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


coast.  And  there  new  regret  began,  and  his  knowl¬ 
edge  of  her  ended. 

But  she  and  her  husband  had  not  been  drowned ; 
with  a  sailor  they  had  reached  the  shore  in  safety. 
They  had  traveled  inland  from  the  coast  through 
the  great  mountains  by  unknown  paths,  and  as  they 
traveled,  the  sailor  died  ;  and  they  came  at  last 
through  innumerable  hardships  to  the  Kimash  Hills, 
the  hills  of  the  Mighty  Men,  and  there  they  stayed. 
It  was  not  an  evil  land  ;  it  had  neither  deadly  cold 
in  winter  nor  wanton  heat  in  summer.  But  they 
never  saw  a  human  face,  and  everything  was  lonely 
and  spectral.  For  a  time  they  strove  to  go  east¬ 
wards  or  southwards,  but  the  mountains  were  im¬ 
passable,  and  in  the  north  and  west  there  was  no 
hope.  Though  the  buffalo  swept  by  them  in  the 
valley  they  could  not  slay  them,  and  they  lived  on 
forest  fruits  until  in  time  the  man  sickened.  The 
woman  nursed  him  faithfully,  but  still  he  failed  ; 
and  when  she  could  go  forth  no  more  for  food,  some 
unseen  dweller  of  the  woods  brought  buffalo  meat, 
and  prairie  fowl,  and  water  from  the  spring,  and 
laid  them  beside  her  door. 

She  had  seen  the  mounds  upon  the  hill,  the  wide 
couches  of  the  sleepers,  and  she  remembered  the 
things  done  in  the  days  when  God  seemed  nearer  to 
the  sons  of  men  than  now  ;  and  she  said  that  a 
spirit  had  done  this  thing,  and  trembled  and  was 
thankful.  But  the  man  weakened  and  knew  that  he 
should  die ;  and  one  night  when  the  pain  was  sharp 
upon  him  he  prayed  bitterly  that  he  might  pass,  or 
that  help  might  come  to  snatch  him  from  the  grave. 
And  as  they  sobbed  together,  a  form  entered  at  the 
door, — a  form  clothed  in  scarlet, — and  he  bade  them 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER. 


iSs 

tell  the  tale  of  their  lives  as  they  would  some  time  tell 
it  unto  heaven.  And  when  the  tale  was  told  he  said 
that  succor  should  come  to  them  from  the  south  by 
the  hand  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter,  that  the  nation  sleep¬ 
ing  there  should  no  more  be  disturbed  by  their  moan¬ 
ing.  And  then  he  had  gone  forth,  and  with  his 
going  there  was  a  storm  such  as  that  in  which  the 
man  had  died,  the  storm  that  had  assailed  the  hun¬ 
ters  in  the  forest  yesterday. 

This  was  the  second  part  of  Hester  Orval’s  life  as 
she  told  it  to  Just  Trafford.  And  he,  looking  into 
her  eyes,  knew  that  she  had  suffered,  and  that  she 
had  sounded  her  husband’s  unworthiness.  Then  he 
turned  from  her  and  went  into  the  room  where  the 
dead  man  lay.  And  there  all  hardness  passed  from 
him,  and  he  understood  that  in  the  great  going  forth 
man  reckons  to  the  full  with  the  deeds  done  in  that 
brief  pilgrimage  called  life  ;  and  that  in  the  bitter 
journey  which  this  one  took  across  the  dread  spaces 
between  Here  and  There,  he  had  repented  of  his 
sins,  because  they,  and  they  only,  went  with  him  in 
mocking  company;  the  good  having  gone  first  to 
plead  where  evil  is  a  debtor  and  hath  a  prison.  And 
the  woman  came  and  stood  beside  Trafford,  and 
whispered,  “  At  first — and  at  the  last — he  was 
kind.” 

But  he  urged  her  gently  from  the  room  :  “  Go 
away,”  he  said  ;  “  go  away.  We  cannot  judge  him. 
Leave  me  alone  with  him.” 

They  buried  him  upon  the  hill-side,  far  from  the 
mounds  where  the  Mighty  Men  waited  for  their  sum¬ 
mons  to  go  forth  and  be  the  lords  of  the  North  again. 
At  night  they  buried  him  when  the  moon  was  at  its 
full ;  and  he  had  the  fragrant  pines  for  his  bed  and 


i86 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


the  warm  darkness  to  cover  him ;  and  though  he  is 
to  those  others  resting  there  a  heathen  and  an  alien, 
it  may  be  that  he  sleeps  peacefully. 

When  Trafford  questioned  Hester  Orval  more 
deeply  of  her  life  there,  the  unearthly  look  quickened 
in  her  eyes,  and  she  said  :  “  Oh,  nothing,  nothing  is 
real  here,  but  suffering ;  perhaps  it  is  all  a  dream, 
but  it  has  changed  me,  changed  me.  To  hear  the 
tread  of  the  flying  herds, — to  see  no  being  save  him, 
the  Scarlet  Hunter, — to  hear  the  voices  calling  in  the 
night !  .  .  .  Hush  !  There,  do  you  not  hear  them  ? 
It  is  midnight — listen  !  ” 

He  listened,  and  Pierre  and  Shon  McGann  looked 
at  each  other  apprehensively,  while  Shon’s  fingers 
felt  hurriedly  along  the  beads  of  a  rosary  which  he 
did  not  hold.  Yes,  they  heard  it,  a  deep  sonorous 
sound  :  “  Is  the  daybreak  come  ?  ”  “  It  is  still  the 

flight,^’’  rose  the  reply  as  of  one  clear  voice.  And 
then  there  floated  through  the  hills  more  softly : 
“  We  sleep — we  sleep  !  ”  And  the  sounds  echoed 
through  the  valley — “  sleep — sleep  !  ” 

Yet  though  these  things  were  full  of  awe,  the  spirit 
of  the  place  held  them  there,  and  the  fever  of  the 
hunter  descended  on  them  hotly.  In  the  morning 
they  went  forth,  and  rode  into  the  White  Valley 
where  the  buffalo  were  feeding,  and  sought  to  steal 
upon  them ;  but  the  shots  from  their  guns  only 
awoke  the  hills,  and  none  were  slain.  And  though 
they  rode  swiftly,  the  wide  surf  of  snow  was  ever  be¬ 
tween  them  and  the  chase,  and  their  striving  availed 
nothing.  Day  after  day  they  followed  that  flying 
column,  and  night  after  night  they  heard  the  sleepers 
call  from  the  hills.  And  the  desire  of  the  thing 
wasted  them,  and  they  forgot  to  eat,  and  ceased  to 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER.  187 

talk  among  themselves.  But  one  day  Shon  McGann, 
muttering  aves  as  he  rode,  gained  on  the  cattle,  until 
once  again  the  Scarlet  Hunter  came  forth  from  a 
cleft  of  the  mountains,  and  drove  the  herd  forward 
with  swifter  feet.  But  the  Irishman  had  learned  the 
power  in  this  thing,  and  had  taught  Trafford,  who 
knew  not  those  availing  prayers,  and  with  these 
sacred  conjurations  on  their  lips  they  gained  on  the 
cattle  length  by  length,  though  the  Scarlet  Hunter 
rode  abreast  of  the  thundering  horde.  Within  easy 
range,  Trafford  swung  his  gun  shoulderwards  to  fire, 
but  at  that  instant  a  cloud  of  snow  rose  up  between 
him  and  his  quarry  so  that  they  all  were  blinded. 
And  when  they  came  into  the  clear  sun  again  the 
buffalo  were  gone  ;  but  flaming  arrows  from  some 
unseen  hunter’s  bow  came  singing  over  their  heads 
towards  the  south  ;  and  they  obeyed  the  sign,  and 
went  back  to  where  Hester  wore  her  life  out  with 
anxiety  for  them,  because  she  knew  the  hopelessness 
of  their  quest.  Women  are  nearer  to  the  heart  of 
things.  And  now  she  begged  Trafford  to  go  south¬ 
wards  before  winter  froze  the  plains  impassably,  and 
the  snow  made  tombs  of  the  valleys.  And  he  gave 
the  word  to  go,  and  said  that  he  had  done  wrong — 
for  now  the  spell  was  falling  from  him. 

But  she,  seeing  his  regret,  said :  “  Ah,  Just,  it  could 
not  have  been  different.  The  passion  of  it  was  on 
you  as  it  was  on  us  ;  as  if  to  teach  us  that  hunger 
for  happiness  is  robbery,  and  that  the  covetous  de¬ 
sire  of  man  is  not  the  will  of  the  gods.  The  herds 
are  for  the  Mighty  Men  when  they  awake,  not  for 
the  stranger  and  the  Philistine.” 

“  You  have  grown  wise,  Hester,”  he  replied. 

“No,  I  am  sick  in  brain  and  body ;  but  it  may  be 
that  in  such  sickness  there  is  wisdom.” 


i88 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  Ah,”  he  said,  “  it  has  turned  my  head,  I  think. 
Once  I  laughed  at  all  such  fanciful  things  as  these. 
This  Scarlet  Hunter, — how  many  times  have  you 
seen  him  ?  ” 

“  But  once.” 

“  What  were  his  looks  ?  ” 

“  A  face  pale  and  strong,  with  noble  eyes  ;  and  in 
his  voice  there  was  something  strange.” 

Trafford  thought  of  Shangi,  the  Indian, — where 
had  he  gone  ?  He  had  disappeared  as  suddenly  as 
he  had  come  to  their  camp  in  the  South. 

As  they  sat  silent  in  the  growing  night,  the  door 
opened  and  the  Scarlet  Hunter  stood  before 
them. 

“  There  is  food,”  he  said,  “  on  the  threshold, — 
food  for  those  who  go  upon  a  far  journey  to  the 
South  in  the  morning.  Unhappy  are  they  who  seek 
for  gold  at  the  rainbow’s  foot,  who  chase  the  fire-fly 
in  the  night,  who  follow  the  herds  in  the  White  Val¬ 
ley.  Wise  are  they  who  anger  not  the  gods,  and 
who  fly  before  the  rising  storm.  There  is  a  path 
from  the  valley  for  the  strangers,  the  path  by  which 
they  came ;  and  when  the  sun  stares  forth  again  upon 
the  world,  the  way  shall  be  open,  and  there  shall  be 
safety  for  you  until  your  travel  ends  in  the  quick 
world  whither  you  go.  You  were  foolish;  now  you 
are  wise.  It  is  time  to  depart ;  seek  not  to  return, 
that  we  may  have  peace  and  you  safety.  When  the 
world  cometh  to  her  spring  again  we  shall  meet.” 
Then  he  turned  and  was  gone,  with  Trafford’s  voice 
ringing  after  him, — “  Shangi !  Shangi  !  ” 

They  ran  out  swiftly,  but  he  had  vanished.  In 
the  valley  where  the  moonlight  fell  in  icy  coldness  a 
herd  of  cattle  was  moving,  and  their  breath  rose  like 


THE  SCARLET  HUNTER.  189 

the  spray  from  sea-beaten  rocks,  and  the  sound  of 
their  breathing  was  borne  upwards  to  the  watchers. 

At  daybreak  they  rode  down  into  the  valley.  All 
was  still.  Not  a  trace  of  life  remained ;  not  a  hoof- 
mark  in  the  snow,  nor  a  bruised  blade  of  grass.  And 
when  they  climbed  to  the  plateau  and  looked  back, 
it  seemed  to  TrafEord  and  his  companions,  as  it 
seemed  in  after  years,  that  this  thing  had  been  all  a 
fantasy.  But  Hester’s  face  was  beside  them,  and 
it  told  of  strange  and  unsubstantial  things.  The 
shadows  of  the  middle  world  were  upon  her.  And 
yet  again  when  they  turned  at  the  last  there  was  no 
token.  It  was  a  northern  valley,  with  sun  and  snow, 
and  cold  blue  shadows,  and  the  high  hills — that 
was  all. 

Then  Hester  said  :  ‘‘  O  Just,  I  do  not  know  if  this 
is  life  or  death — and  yet  it  must  be  death,  for  after 
death  there  is  forgiveness  to  those  who  repent,  and 
your  face  is  forgiving  and  kind.” 

And  he — for  he  saw  that  she  needed  much  human 
help  and  comfort — gently  laid  his  hand  on  hers  and 
replied  :  “  Hester,  this  is  life,  a  new  life  for  both  of 
us.  Whatever  has  been  was  a  dream  ;  whatever  is 
now,” — and  he  folded  her  hand  in  his — ‘‘  ig  real  ; 
and  there  is  no  such  thing  as  forgiveness  to  be 
spoken  of  between  us.  There  shall  be  happiness 
for  us  yet,  please  God  !  ” 

“  I  want  to  go  to  Falkenstowe.  Will — will  my 
mother  forgive  me  ?  ” 

“  Mothers  always  forgive,  Hester,  else  half  the 
world  had  slain  itself  in  shame.” 

And  then  she  smiled  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  seen  her.  This  was  in  the  shadows  of  the 
scented  pines  ;  and  a  new  life  breathed  upon  her, 


190 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


as  it  breathed  upon  them  all,  and  they  knew  that  the 
fever  of  the  White  Valley  had  passed  away  from 
them  forever. 

After  many  hardships  they  came  in  safety  to  the 
regions  of  the  south  country  again ;  and  the  tale  they 
told,  though  doubted  by  the  race  of  pale-faces,  was 
believed  by  the  heathen ;  because  there  was  none 
among  them,  but  as  he  cradled  at  his  mother’s 
breasts,  and  from  his  youth  up,  had  heard  the 
legend  of  the  Scarlet  Hunter, 

For  the  romance  of  that  journey,  it  concerned 
only  the  man  and  woman  to  whom  it  was  as  wine 
and  meat  to  the  starving.  Is  not  love  more  than 
legend,  and  a  human  heart  than  all  the  beasts  of 
the  field  or  any  joy  of  slaughter  ? 


The  Stone. 


The  Stone  hung  on  a  jutting  crag  of  Purple  Hill. 
On  one  side  of  it,  far  beneath,  lay  the  village, 
huddled  together  as  if,  through  being  close  com¬ 
pacted,  its  handful  of  humanity  should  not  be  a 
mere  dust  in  the  balance  beside  Nature’s  porten¬ 
tousness.  Yet  if  one  stood  beside  The  Stone,  and 
looked  down,  the  flimsy  wooden  huts  looked  like  a 
barrier  at  the  end  of  a  great  flume.  For  the  hill 
hollowed  and  narrowed  from  The  Stone  to  the  vil¬ 
lage,  as  if  giants  had  made  this  concave  path  by 
trundling  boulders  to  that  point  like  a  funnel  where 
the  miners’  houses  now  formed  a  cul-de-sac.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  crag  was  a  valley  also  ;  but  it  was 
lonely  and  untenanted  ;  and  at  one  flank  of  The 
Stone  were  serried  legions  of  trees. 

The  Stone  was  a  mighty  and  wonderful  thing. 
Looked  at  from  the  village  direct,  it  had  nothing 
but  the  sky  for  a  background.  At  times,  also,  it 
appeared  to  rest  on  nothing  ;  and  many  declared 
that  they  could  see  clean  between  it  and  the  oval 
floor  of  the  crag  on  which  it  rested.  That  was 
generally  in  the  evening,  when  the  sun  was  setting 
behind  it.  Then  the  light  coiled  round  its  base, 
between  it  and  its  pedestal,  thus  making  it  appear 
to  hover  above  the  hill-point,  or,  planet-like,  to  be 
just  settling  on  it.  At  other  times,  when  the  light 
was  perfectly  clear  and  not  too  strong,  and  the  vil¬ 
lage  side  of  the  crag  was  brighter  than  the  other, 


ig2  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

more  accurate  relations  of  The  Stone  to  its  pedestal 
could  be  discovered.  Then  one  would  say  that  it 
balanced,  on  a  tiny  base,  a  toe  of  granite.  But  if 
one  looked  long,  especially  in  the  summer,  when  the 
air  throbbed,  it  evidently  rocked  upon  that  toe  ;  if 
steadily,  and  very  long,  he  grew  tremulous,  perhaps 
afraid.  Once,  a  woman  who  was  about  to  become 
a  mother  went  mad,  because  she  thought  The  Stone 
would  hurtle  down  the  hill  at  her  great  moment  and 
destroy  her  and  her  child,  Indians  would  not  live 
either  on  the  village  side  of  The  Stone  or  in  the 
valley  beyond.  They  had  a  legend  that,  some  day, 
one,  whom  they  called  The  Man  Who  Sleeps,  would 
rise  from  his  hidden  couch  in  the  mountains,  and, 
being  angry  that  any  dared  to  cumber  his  play¬ 
ground,  would  hurl  The  Stone  upon  them  that  dwelt 
at  Purple  Hill.  But  white  men  pay  little  heed  to 
Indian  legends. 

At  one  time  or  another  every  person  who  had 
come  to  the  village  visited  The  Stone.  Colossal  as 
it  was,  the  real  base  on  which  its  weight  rested  was 
actually  very  small ;  the  view  from  the  village  had 
not  been  all  deceitful.  It  is  possible,  indeed,  that 
at  one  time  it  had  really  rocked,  and  that  the  rock¬ 
ing  had  worn  for  it  a  shallow  cup,  or  socket,  in  which 
it  poised.  The  first  man  who  came  to  Purple  Valley 
prospecting  had  often  stopped  his  work  and  looked 
at  The  Stone  in  a  half-fear  that  it  would  spring  upon 
him  unawares.  And  yet  he  had  as  often  laughed 
at  himself  for  doing  so,  since,  as  he  said,  it  must 
have  been  there  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years. 
Strangers,  when  they  came  to  the  village,  went  to 
sleep  somewhat  timidly  the  first  night  of  their  stay, 
and  not  infrequently  left  their  beds  to  go  and  look 


THE  STONE. 


193 


at  The  Stone,  as  it  hung  there  ominously  in  the 
light  of  the  moon  ;  or  listened  towards  it  if  it  was 
dark.  When  the  moon  rose  late,  and  The  Stone 
chanced  to  be  directly  in  front  of  it,  a  black  sphere 
seemed  to  be  rolling  into  the  light  to  blot  it  out. 

But  none  who  lived  in  the  village  looked  upon 
The  Stone  in  quite  the  same  fashion  as  did  that 
first  man  who  had  come  to  the  valley.  He  had  seen 
it  through  three  changing  seasons,  with  no  human 
being  near  him,  and  only  occasionally  a  shy,  wander¬ 
ing  elk,  or  a  cloud  of  wild  ducks  whirring  down  the 
pass,  to  share  his  companionship  with  it.  Once  he 
had  waked  in  the  early  morning,  and,  possessed  of 
a  strange  feeling,  had  gone  out  to  look  at  The  Stone. 
There,  perched  upon  it,  was  an  eagle  ;  and  though 
he  said  to  himself  that  an  eagle’s  weight  was  to 
The  Stone  as  a  feather  upon  the  world,  he  kept 
his  face  turned  towards  it  all  day  ;  for  all  day  the 
eagle  staid.  He  was  a  man  of  great  stature  and 
immense  strength.  The  thews  of  his  limbs  stood 
out  like  soft  unbreakable  steel.  Yet,  as  if  to  cast 
derision  on  his  strength  and  great  proportions,  God 
or  Fate  turned  his  bread  to  ashes,  gave  failure  into 
his  hands  where  he  hugely  grasped  at  fortune,  and 
hung  him  about  with  misery.  He  discovered  gold, 
but  others  gathered  it.  It  was  his  daughter  that 
went  mad,  and  gave  birth  to  a  dead  child  in  fear¬ 
some  thought  of  The  Stone.  Once,  when  he  had 
gone  over  the  hills  to  another  mining  field,  and  had 
been  prevented  from  coming  back  by  unexpected 
and  heavy  snows,  his  wife  was  taken  ill,  and  died 
alone  of  starvation,  because  none  in  the  village  re¬ 
membered  of  her  and  her  needs.  Again,  one  wild 
night,  long  after,  his  only  son  was  taken  from  his 

13 


194 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


bed  and  lynched  for  a  crime  that  was  none  of  his, 
as  was  discovered  by  his  murderers  next  day.  Then 
they  killed  horribly  the  real  criminal,  and  offered 
the  father  such  satisfaction  as  they  could.  They 
said  that  any  one  of  them  was  ready  there  to  be 
killed  by  him  ;  and  they  threw  a  weapon  at  his  feet. 
At  this  he  stood  looking  upon  them  for  a  moment, 
his  great  breast  heaving  and  his  eyes  glowering ; 
but  presently  he  reached  out  his  arms,  and  taking 
two  of  them  by  the  throat,  brought  their  heads 
together  heavily,  breaking  their  skulls  ;  and,  with  a 
cry  in  his  throat  like  a  wounded  animal,  left  them, 
and  entered  the  village  no  more.  But  it  became 
known  that  he  had  built  a  rude  hut  on  Purple  Hill, 
and  that  he  had  been  seen  standing  beside  The 
Stone  or  sitting  among  the  boulders  below  it,  with 
his  face  bent  upon  the  village.  Those  who  had 
come  near  to  him  said  that  he  had  greatly  changed ; 
that  his  hair  and  beard  had  grown  long  and  strong, 
and,  in  effect,  that  he  looked  like  some  rugged  frag¬ 
ment  of  an  antique  world. 

The  time  came  when  they  associated  The  Man 
with  The  Stone :  they  grew  to  speak  of  him  simply 
as  The  Man.  There  was  something  natural  and  apt 
in  the  association.  Then  they  avoided  these  two 
singular  dwellers  on  the  height.  What  had  hap¬ 
pened  to  The  Man  when  he  lived  in  the  village  be¬ 
came  almost  as  great  a  legend  as  the  Indian  fable 
concerning  The  Stone.  In  the  minds  of  the  people 
one  seemed  as  old  as  the  other.  Women  who  knew 
the  awful  disasters  which  had  befallen  The  Man 
brooded  at  times  most  timidly,  regarding  him 
as  they  did  at  first — and  even  still — The  Stone. 
Women  who  carried  life  unborn  about  with  them 


THE  STONE. 


195 


had  a  strange  dread  of  both  The  Stone  and  The 
Man.  Time  passed  on,  and  the  feeling  grew  that 
The  Man’s  grief  must  be  a  terrible  thing,  since  he 
lived  alone  with  The  Stone  and  God.  But  this  did 
not  prevent  the  men  of  the  village  from  digging  gold, 
drinking  liquor,  and  doing  many  kinds  of  evil.  One 
day,  again,  they  did  an  unjust  and  cruel  thing. 
They  took  Pierre,  the  gambler,  whom  they  had  at 
first  sought  to  vanquish  at  his  own  art,  and,  pos¬ 
sessed  suddenly  of  the  high  duty  of  citizenship,  car¬ 
ried  him  to  the  edge  of  a  hill  and  dropped  him  over, 
thinking  thereby  to  give  him  a  quick  death,  while 
the  vultures  would  provide  him  a  tomb.  But  Pierre 
was  not  killed,  though  to  his  grave — unprepared  as 
yet — he  would  bear  an  arm,  which  should  never  be 
lifted  higher  than  his  shoulder.  When  he  waked 
from  the  crashing  gloom  which  succeeded  the  fall, 
he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  being  whose  appearance 
was  awesome  and  massive — an  outlawed  god  :  whose 
hair  and  beard  were  white,  whose  eye  was  piercing, 
absorbing,  painful,  in  the  long  perspective  of  its 
woe.  This  being  sat  with  his  great  hand  clasped 
to  the  side  of  his  head.  The  beginning  of  his  look 
was  the  village,  and — though  the  vision  seemed  in¬ 
finite — the  village  was  the  end  of  it  too.  Pierre, 
looking  through  the  doorway  beside  which  he  lay, 
drew  in  his  breath  sharply,  for  it  seemed  at  first  as 
if  I'he  Man  was  an  unnatural  fancy,  and  not  a  thing. 
Behind  The  Man  was  The  Stone,  which  was  not 
more  motionless  nor  more  full  of  age  than  this  its 
comrade.  Indeed,  The  Stone  seemed  more  a  thinsT 
of  life  as  it  poised  above  the  hill :  The  Man  was 
sculptured  rock.  His  white  hair  was  chiselled  on 
his  broad  brow,  his  face  was  a  solemn  pathos  petri 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


196 

fied,  his  lips  were  curled  with  an  iron  contempt,  an 
incalculable  anger. 

The  sun  went  down,  and  darkness  gathered  about 
The  Man.  Pierre  reached  out  his  hand,  and  drank 
the  water  and  ate  the  coarse  bread  that  had  been 
put  near  him.  He  guessed  that  trees  or  protruding 
ledges  had  broken  his  fall,  and  that  he  had  been 
rescued  and  brought  here.  As  he  lay  thinking.  The 
Man  entered  the  doorway,  stooping  much  to  do  so. 
With  flints  he  lighted  a  wick  which  hung  from  a 
wooden  bowl  of  bear’s  oil ;  then  kneeling,  held  it 
above  his  head,  and  looked  at  Pierre.  And  Pierre, 
who  had  never  feared  any  one,  shrank  from  the  look 
in  The  Man’s  eyes.  But  when  the  other  saw  that 
Pierre  was  awake,  a  distant  kindness  came  upon  his 
face,  and  he  nodded  gravely  ;  but  he  did  not  speak. 

Presently  a  great  tremor  as  of  pain  shook  all  his 
limbs,  anddie  set  the  candle  on  the  ground,  and  with 
his  stalwart  hands  arranged  afresh  the  bandages 
about  Pierre’s  injured  arm  and  leg.  Pierre  spoke  at 
last. 

“  You  are  The  Man  ?  ”  he  said. 

The  other  bowed  his  head. 

“  You  saved  me  from  those  devils  in  the  valley  ?  ’ 

A  look  of  impregnable  hardness  came  into  The 
Man’s  face,  but  he  pressed  Pierre’s  hand  for  answer  ; 
and  though  the  pressure  was  meant  to  be  gentle, 
Pierre  winced  painfully.  The  candle  spluttered,  and 
the  hut  filled  with  a  sickly  smoke.  The  Man  brought 
some  bear  skins  and  covered  the  sufferer,  for,  the 
season  being  autumn,  the  night  was  cold.^  Pierre, 
who  had  thus  spent  his  first  sane  and  conscious  hour 
in  many  days,  fell  asleep.  What  time  it  was  when 
he  waked  he  was  not  sure,  but  it  was  to  hear  a  metal' 


THE  STON'E. 


197 


lie  dick-click  come  to  him  through  the  clear  air  of  night. 
It  was  a  pleasant  noise  as  of  steel  and  rock  ;  the 
work  of  some  lonely  stone-cutter  of  the  hills.  The 
sound  reached  him  with  strange,  increasing  distinct¬ 
ness.  Was  this  Titan  that  had  saved  him  sculptur¬ 
ing  some  figure  from  the  metal  hill  ?  Click-click  !  it 
vibrated  as  regularly  as  the  keen  pulse  of  a  watch. 
He  lay  and  wondered  for  a  long  time,  but  fell  asleep 
again  ;  and  the  steely  iteration  went  on  in  his  dreams. 

In  the  morning  The  Man  came  to  him,  and  cared 
for  his  hurts,  and  gave  him  food  ;  but  still  would 
speak  no  word.  He  was  gone  nearly  all  day  in  the 
hills  ;  yet  when  evening  came  he  sought  the  place 
where  Pierre  had  seen  him  the  night  before,  and  the 
same  weird  scene  was  re-enacted.  And  again  in  the 
night  the  clicking  sound  went  on  ;  and  every  night 
it  was  renewed.  Pierre  grew  stronger,  and  could, 
with  difficulty,  stand  upon  his  feet.  One  night  he 
crept  out,  and  made  his  way  softly,  slowly,  towards 
the  sound.  He  saw  The  Man  kneeling  beside  The 
Stone,  he  saw  a  hammer  rise  and  fall  upon  a  chisel, 
and  the  chisel  was  at  the  base  of  The  Stone.  The 
hammer  rose  and  fell  with  perfect  but  dreadful  pre¬ 
cision.  Pierre  turned  and  looked  towards  the  vil¬ 
lage  below,  whose  lights  were  burning  like  a  bunch 
of  fire-flies  in  the  gloom.  Again  he  looked  at  The 
Stone  and  The  Man. 

Then  the  thing  came  to  him  sharply.  The  Man 
was  chiselling  away  the  socket  of  The  Stone,  bring¬ 
ing  it  to  that  point  of  balance  where  the  touch  of  a 
finger,  the  wing  of  a  bird,  or  the  whistle  of  a  north¬ 
west  wind,  would,  send  it  down  upon  the  offending 
and  unsuspecting  village. 

The  thought  held  him  paralyzed.  The  man  had 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


198 

nursed  his  revenge  long  past  the  thought  of  its  prob¬ 
ability  by  the  people  beneath.  He  had  at  first  sat 
and  watched  the  village,  hated  and  mused  dreadfully 
upon  the  thing  he  had  determined  to  do.  Then  he 
had  worked  a  little,  afterwards  more,  and  now,  lastly, 
since  he  had  seen  what  they  had  done  to  Pierre, 
with  the  hot  but  firm  eagerness  of  an  avenging  giant. 
Pierre  had  done  some  sad  deeds  in  his  time,  and 
had  tasted  some  sweet  revenges,  but  nothing  like  to 
this  had  ever  entered  his  brain.  In  that  village 
were  men  who — as  they  thought — had  cast  him  to  a 
death  fit  only  for  a  coward  or  a  cur.  Well,  here  was 
the  most  exquisite  retaliation.  Though  his  hand 
should  not  be  in  the  thing,  he  could  still  be  the 
cynical  and  approving  spectator. 

But  yet  :  had  all  those  people  hovering  about 
those  lights  below  done  harm  to  him  }  He  thought 
there  were  a  few — and  they  were  women — who  would 
not  have  followed  his  tumbril  to  his  death  with 
cries  of  execration.  The  rest  would  have  done  so, 
— most  of  them  did  so, — not  because  he  was  a  crim¬ 
inal,  but  because  he  was  a  victim,  and  because  human 
nature  as  it  is  thirsts  inordinately  at  times  for  blood 
and  sacrifice — a  living  strain  of  the  old  barbaric  in¬ 
stinct.  He  remembered  that  most  of  these  people 
were  concerned  in  having  injured  The  Man.  The 
few  good  women  there  had  vile  husbands  ;  the  few 
pardonable  men  had  hateful  wives  :  the  village  of 
Purple  Hill  was  an  ill  affair. 

He  thought :  now  doubtfully,  now  savagely,  now 
with  irony. 

The  hammer  and  steel  clicked  on. 

He  looked  at  the  lights  of  the  village  again. 

Suddenly  there  came  to  his  mind  the  words  of  a 


THE  STONE. 


199 


great  man  who  sought  to  save  a  city  manifold  cen¬ 
turies  ago.  He  was  not  sure  that  he  wished  to  save 
this  village  ;  but  there  was  a  grim,  almost  grotesque, 
fitness  in  the  thing  that  he  now  intended.  He  spoke 
out  clearly  through  the  night  : 

6>/z,  let  not  the  Lord  be  angry,  and  I  will  speak 
yet  but  this  once :  Peradventure  ten  righteous  shall  be 
found  there  I  ” 

The  hammer  stopped.  There  was  a  silence,  in 
which  the  pines  sighed  lightly.  Then,  as  if  speak¬ 
ing  was  a  labor.  The  Man  replied  in  a  deep,  harsh 
voice  : 

“  I  will  not  spare  it  for  ten’s  sake.” 

Again  there  was  a  silence,  in  which  Pierre  felt  his 
maimed  body  bend  beneath  him ;  but  presently  the 
voice  said, — “  JV070  !  ” 

At  this  the  moon  swung  from  behind  a  cloud. 
The  Man  stood  behind  The  Stone.  His  arm  was 
raised  to  it.  There  was  a  moment’s  pause — it  seemed 
like  years  to  Pierre  ;  a  wind  came  softly  crying  out 
of  the  west,  the  moon  hurried  into  the  dark,  and 
then  a  monster  sprang  from  its  pedestal  upon  Purple 
Hill,  and,  with  a  sound  of  thunder  and  an  awful 
speed,  raced  upon  the  village  below.  The  boulders 
of  the  hillside  crumbled  after  it. 

And  Pierre  saw  the  lights  go  out. 

The  moon  shone  out  again  for  an  instant,  and 
Pierre  saw  that  The  Man  stood  where  The  Stone 
had  been ;  but  when  he  reached  the  place  The  Man 
was  gone.  Forever  ! 


The  Tall  Master. 


The  story  has  been  so  much  tossed  about  in  the 
mouths  of  Indians  and  half-breeds  and  men  of  the 
Hudson’s  Bay  Company,  that  you  are  pretty  sure  to 
hear  only  an  apocryphal  version  of  the  thing  as 
you  now  travel  in  the  North.  But  Pretty  Pierre 
was  at  Fort  Luke  when  the  battle  occurred,  and 
before  and  after  he  sifted  the  business  thoroughly. 
For  he  had  a  philosophical  turn,  and  this  may  be  said 
of  him,  that  he  never  lied  except  to  save  another 
from  danger.  In  this  matter  he  was  cool  and  im¬ 
partial  from  first  to  last,  and  evil  as  his  reputation 
was  in  many  ways  there  were  those  who  believed  and 
trusted  him.  Himself,  as  he  traveled  back  and  forth 
through  the  North,  had  heard  of  the  Tall  Master. 
Yet  he  had  never  met  any  one  who  had  seen  him  ;  for 
the  Master  had  dwelt,  it  was  said,  chiefly  among  the 
strange  tribes  of  the  Far-Off  Metal  River  whose  faces 
were  almost  white,  and  who  held  themselves  aloof 
from  the  southern  races.  The  tales  lost  nothing  by 
being  retold,  even  when  the  historians  were  the  men 
of  the  H.  B.  C. ; — Pierre  knew  what  accomplished 
liars  may  be  found  among  that  Company  of  Adven¬ 
turers  trading  in  Hudson’s  Bay,  and  how  their  art 
had  been  none  too  delicately  engrafted  by  his  own 
people.  But  he  was,  as  became  him,  open  to  con¬ 
viction,  especially  when,  journeying  to  Fort  Luke, 
he  heard  what  John  Hybar,  the  Chief  Factor — a 
man  of  uncommon  quality— had  to  say.  Hybar  had 


THE  TALL  MASTER. 


201 


once  lived  long  among  those  Indians  of  the  Bright 
Stone,  and  had  seen  many  rare  things  among  them. 
He  knew  their  legends  of  the  White  Valley  and 
the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men,  and  how  their  dis¬ 
tinctive  character  had  imposed  itself  on  the  whole 
Indian  race  of  the  North,  so  that  there  was  none 
but  believed,  even  though  vaguely,  in  a  pleasant 
land  not  south  but  Arcticwards  ;  and  Pierre  himself, 
with  Shon  McGann  and  Just  Trafford,  had  once  had 
a  strange  experience  in  the  Kimash  Hills.  He  did 
not  share  the  opinion  of  Lazenby,  the  Company’s 
clerk  at  Fort  Luke,  who  said,  when  the  matter  was 
talked  of  before  him,  that  it  was  all  hanky-panky , — 
which  was  evidence  that  he  had  lived  in  London 
town,  before  his  anxious  relatives,  sending  him  forth 
under  the  delusive  flag  of  adventure  and  wild  life, 
imprisoned  him  in  the  Arctic  regions  with  the 
H.  B.  C. 

Lazenby  admired  Pierre  ;  said  he  was  good  stuff, 
and  voted  him  amusing,  with  an  ingenious  emphasis 
of  heathen  oaths  ;  but  advised  him,  as  only  an  in¬ 
solent  young  scoundrel  can,  to  forswear  securing,  by 
the  seductive  game  of  poker  or  eucher,  larger  interest 
on  his  capital  than  the  H.  B.  C.;  whose  record,  he 
insisted,  should  never  be  rivalled  by  any  single  man 
in  any  single  lifetime.  Then  he  incidentally  re¬ 
marked  that  he  would  like  to  empty  the  Company’s 
cash-box  once — only  once  ; — thus  reconciling  the 
preacher  and  the  sinner,  as  many  another  has  done. 
Lazenby’s  morals  were  not  bad,  however.  He  was 
simply  fond  of  making  them  appear  terrible  ;  even 
when  in  London  he  was  more  idle  than  wicked.  He 
gravely  suggested  at  last,  as  a  kind  of  climax,  that 
he  and  Pierre  should  go  out  on  the  pad  together. 


202 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


This  was  a  mere  stroke  of  pleasantry  on  his  part, 
because,  the  most  he  could  loot  in  that  far  North 
were  furs  and  caches  of  buffalo  meat  ;  and  a  man’s 
capacity  and  use  for  them  were  limited.  Even 
Pierre’s  especial  faculty  and  art  seemed  valueless  so 
far  Poleward ;  but  he  had  his  beat  throughout  the 
land,  and  he  kept  it  like  a  perfect  patrolman.  He 
had  not  been  at  Fort  Luke  for  years,  and  he  would 
not  be  there  again  for  more  years  ;  but  it  was  certain 
that  he  would  go  on  reappearing  till  he  vanished 
utterly.  At  the  end  of  the  first  week  of  this  visit  at 
Fort  Luke,  so  completely  had  he  conquered  the 
place,  that  he  had  won  from  the  Chief  Factor  the 
year’s  purchases  of  skins,  the  stores,  and  the  Fort 
itself ;  and  every  stitch  of  clothing  owned  by  Laz- 
enby  :  so  that,  if  he  had  insisted  on  the  redemption 
of  the  debts,  the  H.  B.  C.  and  Lazenby  had  been 
naked  and  hungry  in  the  wilderness.  But  Pierre 
was  not  a  hard  creditor.  He  instantly  and  noncha¬ 
lantly  said  that  the  Fort  would  be  useless  to  him, 
and  handed  it  back  again  with  all  therein,  on  a 
most  humorously  constructed  ninety-nine  years’ 
lease  ;  while  Lazenby  was  left  in  pawn.  Yet  Laz- 
enby’s  mind  was  not  at  certain  ease  ;  he  had  a  whole¬ 
some  respect  for  Pierre’s  singularities,  and  dreaded 
being  suddenly  galled  upon  to  pay  his  debt  before 
he  could  get  his  new  clothes  made, — maybe,  in  the 
presence  of  Wind  Driver,  chief  of  the  Golden  Dogs, 
and  his  demure  and  charming  daughter.  Wine  Face, 
who  looked  upon  him  with  the  eye  of  affection — a 
matter  fully,  but  not  ostentatiously,  appreciated  by 
Lazenby.  If  he  could  have  entirely  forgotten  a 
pretty  girl  in  South  Kensington,  who,  at  her  parents’ 
bidding,  turned  her  shoulder  on  him,  he  would  have 


THE  TALL  MASTER. 


203 


married  Wine  Face  ;  so  he  told  Pierre.  But  the  half- 
breed  had  only  a  sardonic  kind  of  sympathy  for  such 
weakness. 

Things  changed  at  once  when  Shon  McGann 
arrived.  He  should  have  come  before,  according  to 
a  promise  given  Pierre,  but  there  were  reasons  for 
the  delay  ;  and  these  Shon  elaborated  in  his  finely 
picturesque  style.  He  said  that  he  had  lost  his 
way  after  he  left  the  Wapiti  Woods,  and  should 
never  have  found  it  again,  had  it  not  been  for  a 
strange  being  who  came  upon  him  and  took  him  to 
the  camp  of  the  White  Hand  Indians,  and  cared 
for  him  there,  and  sent  him  safely  on  his  way  again 
to  Fort  Luke. 

“  Sorra  wan  did  I  ever  see  like  him,”  said  Shon, 
“  with  a  face  that  was  divil  this  minute  and  saint 
the  next ;  pale  in  the  cheek,  and  black  in  the  eye, 
and  grizzled  hair  flowin’  long  at  his  neck  and  lyin’ 
like  snakes  on  his  shoulders  ;  and  whin  his  fingers 
closed  on  yours,  bedad !  they  didn’t  seem  human  at 
all,  for  they  clamped  you  so  cold  and  strong.” 

“  ‘  For  they  clamped  you  so  cold  and  strong,’  ”  re¬ 
plied  Pierre,  mockingly,  yet  greatly  interested,  as 
one  could  see  by  the  upward  range  of  his  eye  to¬ 
wards  Shon.  “  Well,  what  more  ?  ” 

“  Well,  squeeze  the  acid  from  y’r  voice,  Pierre  •, 
for  there’s  things  that  better  become  you  ;  and  lis¬ 
ten  to  me,  for  I’ve  news  for  all  here  at  the  Fort,  be¬ 
fore  I’ve  done,  which’ll  open  y’r  eyes  with  a  jerk.” 

“  With  a  wonderful  jerk,  hola  !  let  us  prepare, 
messieurs,  to  be  waked  with  an  Irish  jerk  !  ”  and 
Pierre  pensively  trifled  with  the  fringe  on  Shon’s 
buckskin  jacket,  which  was  whisked  from  his  fin¬ 
gers  with  smothered  anger.  And  for  a  few  mo- 


204 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


ments  he  was  silent ;  but  the  eager  looks  of  the 
Chief  Factor  and  Lazenby  encouraged  him  to  con¬ 
tinue.  Besides,  it  was  only  Pierre’s  way ;  provok¬ 
ing  Shon  was  the  piquant  sauce  of  his  life. 

“  Lyin’  awake  I  was,”  continued  Shon,  “  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  not  bein’  able  to  sleep  for  a 
pain  in  a  shoulder  I’d  strained,  whin  I  heard  a 
thing  that  drew  me  up  standin’.  It  was  the  sound 
of  a  child  laughin’,  so  wonderful  and  bright,  and  at 
the  very  door  of  me  tent  it  seemed.  Then  it  faded 
away  till  it  was  only  a  breath,  lovely,  and  idle,  and 
swingin’.  I  wint  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  There 
was  nothin’  there,  av  coorse.” 

“And  why  ‘  av  coorse?’”  rejoined  Pierre.  The 
Chief  Factor  was  intent  on  what  Shon  was  saying, 
while  Lazenby  drummed  his  fingers  on  the  table,  his 
nose  in  the  air. 

“  Divils,  me  darlin’,  but  ye  know  as  well  as  I,  that 
there’s  things  in  the  world  neither  for  havin’  nor 
handlin’.  And  that’s  wan  of  thim,  says  I  to  meself 
.  .  .  I  wint  back  and  lay  down,  and  I  heard  the 
voice  singin’  now  and  coinin’  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
growin’  louder  and  louder,  and  then  there  come  with 
it  a  patter  of  feet,  till  it  was  as  a  thousand  children 
were  dancin’  by  me  door.  I  was  shy  enough.  I’ll 
own  ;  but  I  pulled  aside  the  curtain  of  the  tent  to 
see  again  :  and  there  was  nothin’  beyand  for  the 
eye.  But  the  singin’  was  goin’  past  and  recedin’  as 
before,  till  it  died  away  along  the  waves  of  prairie 
grass.  I  wint  back  and  give  Gray  Nose,  my  Injin 
bed-fellow,  a  lift  av  me  fut.  ‘  Come  out  of  that,’ 
says  I,  ‘  and  tell  me  if  dead  or  alive  I  am.’  He  got 
up,  and  there  was  the  noise  soft  and  grand  again, 
but  with  it  now  the  voices  of  men,  the  flip  of  birds’ 


THE  TALL  MASTER. 


205 


wings  and  the  sighin’  of  tree-tops ;  and  behind  all 
that  the  long  wash  of  a  sea  like  none  I  ever  heard. 

‘  Well,’  says  I  to  the  Injin  grinnin’  before  me, 
‘  what’s  that,  in  the  name  o’  Moses  ?  ’  ‘  That,’  says 

he,  laughin’  slow  in  me  face,  ‘  is  the  Tall  Master  ; 
him  that  brought  you  to  the  camp.’  Thin  I  remim- 
bered  all  the  things  that’s  been  said  of  him,  and  I 
knew  it  was  music  I’d  been  bearin’  and  not  chil¬ 
dren’s  voices  nor  anythin’  else  at  all.'  ” 

“  ‘  Come  with  me,’  says  Gray  Nose  ;  and  he  took 
me  to  the  door  of  a  big  tent  standin’  alone  from  the 
rest.  ‘  Wait  a  minute,’  says  he,  and  he  put  his  hand 
on  the  tent  curtain ;  and  at  that  there  was  a  crash, 
as  a  million  gold  hammers  were  failin’  on  silver 
drums.  And  we  both  stood  still ;  for  it  seemed 
an  army,  with  swords  wranglin’  and  bridle-chains 
rattlin,’  was  marchin’  down  on  us.  There  was  the 
divil’s  own  uproar,  as  a  battle  was  cornin’  on  ;  and 
a  long  line  of  spears  clashed.  But  just  then  there 
whistled  through  the  larrup  of  sound  a  clear  voice 
callin’,  gentle  and  coaxin’,  yet  commandin’  too ;  and 
the  spears  dropped,  and  the  pounding  of  horse-hoofs 
ceased,  and  then  the  army  marched  away  ;  far  away  ; 

iver  so  far  away,  into - ” 

“Into  Heaven  !  ”  flippantly  interjected  Lazenby. 
“Into  Heaven,  say  I,  and  be  choked  to  you  !  for 
there’s  no  other  place  for  it ;  and  I’ll  stand  by  that, 
till  I  go  there  myself,  and  know  the  truth  o’  the 
thing.” 

Pierre  here  spoke.  “  Heaven  gave  you  a  great  trick 
with  words,  Shon  McGann.  I  sometimes  think  that 
Irishmen  have  gifts  for  only  two  things  —  words  and 
women.  .  .  .  Well,  what  then  ?  ” 

Shon  was  determined  not  to  be  irritate-d.  The 


2o6  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE 

occasion  was  too  big.  “Well,  Gray  Nose  lifted  the 
curtain  and  wint  in.  In  a  minute  he  comes  out. 
‘  You  can  go  in,’  says  he.  So  in  I  wint,  the  Injin 
not  cornin’,  and  there  in  the  middle  of  the  tint  stood 
the  Tall  Master,  alone.  He  had  his  fiddle  to  his 
chin,  and  the  bow  hoverin’  above  it.  He  looked  at 
me  for  a  long  time  along  the  thing ;  then,  all  at  once, 
from  one  string  I  heard  the  child  laughin’  that  pleas¬ 
ant  and  distant,  though  the  bow  seemed  not  to  be 
touchin’.  Soon  it  thinned  till  it  was  the  shadow  of 
a  laugh,  and  I  didn’t  know  whin  it  stopped,  he 
smilin’  down  at  the  fiddle  bewhiles.  Then  he  said 
without  lookin’  at  me, — ‘  It  is  the  spirit  of  the  White 
Valley  and  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men;  of  which 
all  men  shall  know,  for  the  North  will  come  to  her 
spring  again  one  day  soon,  at  the  remaking  of  the 
world.  They  thought  the  song  would  never  be  found 
again,  but  I  have  given  it  a  home  here,’  And  he 
bent  and  kissed  the  strings.  After,  he  turned  sharp  as 
if  he’d  been  spoke  to  like,  and  looked  at  some  one 
beside  him  ;  some  one  that  I  couldn’t  see.  A  cloud 
dropped  upon  his  face,  he  caught  the  fiddle  ahungry 
to  his  breast,  and  come  limpin’  over  to  me— for 
there  was  somethin’  wrong  with  his  fut— and  lookin’ 
down  his  hook-nose  at  me,  says  he, — I’ve  a  word 
for  them  at  Fort  Luke,  where  you’re  goin’,  and  you’d 
better  be  gone  at  once  ;  and  I’ll  put  you  on  your 
way.  There’s  to  be  a  great  battle.  The  White 
Hands  have  an  ancient  feud  with  the  Golden 
Dogs,  and  they  have  come  from  where  the  soft 
Chinook  wind  ranges  the  Peace  River,  to  fight  until 
no  man  of  all  the  Golden  Dogs  be  left,  or  till  they 
themselves  be  destroyed.  It  is  the  same  north  and 
south,’  he  mumbles ;  ‘  I  have  seen  it  all  in  Italy,  in 


THE  TALL  MAS  TEE. 


207 


Greece,  in - ’  but  here  he  stopped  and  smiled 

strangely.  After  a  minute  he  wint  on  :  ‘The  White 
Hands  have  no  quarrel  with  the  Englishmen  of 
the  Fort,  and  I  would  warn  them, — for  Englishmen 
were  once  kind  to  me — and  warn  also  the  Golden 
Dogs.  So,  come  with  me  at  once,’  says  he.  And  I 
did.  And  he  walked  with  me  till  mornin’,  carryin’ 
the  fiddle  under  his  arm,  but  wrapped  in  a  beautiful 
velvet  cloth,  havin’  on  it  grand  figures  like  the  arms 
of  a  king  or  queen.  And  just  at  the  first  whisk  of 
sun  he  turned  me  into  a  trail  and  give  me  good-bye, 
sayin’  that  maybe  he’d  follow  me  soon,  and,  at  any¬ 
how,  he’d  be  there  at  the  battle.  Well,  divils  betide 
me  !  I  got  off  the  track  again  ;  and  lost  a  day  ;  but 
here  I  am  ;  and  there’s  me  story  to  take  or  lave  as 
you  will.” 

Shon  paused  and  began  to  fumble  with  the  cards 
on  the  table  before  him,  looking  the  while  at  the 
others. 

The  Chief  Factor  was  the  first  to  speak.  “  I 
don’t  doubt  but  he  told  you  true  about  the  White 
Hands  and  the  Golden  Dogs,”  he  said  ;  “  for  there’s 
been  war  and  bad  blood  between  them  beyond  the 
memory  of  man — at  least  since  the  time  that  the 
Mighty  Men  lived,  from  which  these  date  their  his¬ 
tory.  But  there’s  nothing  to  be  done  to-night ;  for  if 
we  tell  old  Wind  Driver,  there’ll  be  no  sleeping  at  the 
Fort.  So  we’ll  let  the  thing  stand.” 

“  You  believe  all  this  poppy-cock.  Chief  ?  ”  said 
Lazenby  to  the  Factor,  but  laughing  in  Shon’s  face 
the  while. 

The  Factor  gravely  replied  :  “  I  knew  of  the  Tall 
Master  years  ago  on  the  Far-Off  Metal  River;  and 
though  1  never  saw  him  I  can  believe  these  things— 


2o8 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


and  more.  You  do  not  know  this  world  through  and 
through,  Lazenby ;  you  have  much  to  learn.” 

Pierre  said  nothing.  He  took  the  cards  from  Shon 
and  passed  them  to  and  fro  in  his  hand.  Mechani¬ 
cally  he  dealt  them  out,  and  as  mechanically  they 
took  them  up  and  in  silence  began  to  play. 

The  next  day  there  was  commotion  and  excitement 
at  Fort  Luke.  The  Golden  Dogs  were  making  prep¬ 
arations  for  the  battle.  Pow-wow  followed  pow-wow, 
and  paint  and  feathers  followed  all.  The  H.  B.  C. 
people  had  little  to  do  but  look  to  their  guns  and 
house  everything  within  the  walls  of  the  Fort. 

At  night,  Shon,  Pierre,  and  Lazenby  were  seated 
about  the  table  in  the  common-room,  the  cards  lying 
dealt  before  them,  waiting  for  the  Factor  to  come. 
Presently  the  door  opened  and  the  Factor  entered, 
followed  by  another.  Shon  and  Pierre  sprang  to 
their  feet. 

“  The  Tall  Master,”  said  Shon,  with  a  kind  of  awe, 
and  then  stood  still. 

Their  towering  visitor  slowly  unloosed  something 
he  carried  very  carefully  and  closely  beneath  his  arm, 
and  laid  it  on  the  table,  dropping  his  compass-like 
fingers  softly  on  it.  He  bowed  gravely  to  each,  yet 
the  bow  seemed  grotesque,  his  body  was  so  ungainly. 
With  the  eyes  of  all  drawn  to  him  absolutely,  he 
spoke  in  a  low  sonorous  tone  :  “  I  have  followed  the 
traveler  fast,” — his  hand  lifted  gently  towards  Shon 
— “  for  there  are  weighty  concerns  abroad,  and  1 
have  things  to  say  and  do  before  I  go  again  to  my 
people — and  beyond.  ...  I  have  hungered  for  the 
face  of  a  white  man  these  many  years,  and  his  was 
the  first  I  saw ;  ” — again  he  tossed  a  long  finger 
towards  the  Irishman — “  and  it  brought  back  many 


THE  TALL  MASTER. 


209 


things.  I  remember.  .  .  ”  He  paused,  then  sat 
down  ;  and  they  all  did  the  same.  He  looked  at 
them  one  by  one  with  distant  kindness.  “  I  remem¬ 
ber,”  he  continued,  and  his  strangely  articulated 
fingers  folded  about  the  thing  on  the  table  beside 
him,  “  when  ” — here  the  cards  caught  his  eye.  His 
face  underwent  a  change.  An  eager  fantastic  look 
shot  from  his  eye,— “  when  I  gambled  this  away  at 
Lucca,” — his  hand  drew  the  bundle  closer  to  him — - 
“  but  I  won  it  back  again — at  a  price !  ”  he  gloomily 
added,  glancing  sideways  as  to  some  one  at  his 
elbow. 

He  remained,  eyes  hanging  upon  space  for  a 
moment,  then  he  recollected  himself  and  continued  : 
“  I  became  wiser  ;  I  never  risked  it  again  ;  but  I 
loved  the  game  always.  I  was  a  gamester  from  the 
start— the  artist  is  always  so  when  he  is  greatest, — 
like  nature  herself.  And  once,  years  after,  I  played 
with  a  mother  for  her  child — and  mine.  And  yet 
once  again  at  Parma  with  ” — here  he  paused,  throw¬ 
ing  that  sharp  sidelong  glance —  “  with  the  greatest 
gamester.,  for  the  infinite  secret  of  Art :  and  I  won  it ; 
but  I  paid  the  price !  .  .  .  I  should  like  to  play 
now.” 

He  reached  his  hand,  drew  up  five  cards,  and  ran 
his  eye  through  them.  “  Play !  ”  he  said.  “  The  hand 
is  good — very  good.  .  .  .  Once  when  I  played  with 
the  Princess — but  it  is  no  matter  ;  and  Tuscany 
is  far  away  !  .  .  .  Play  !  ”  he  repeated. 

Pierre  instantly  picked  up  the  cards,  with  an  air  of 
cool  satisfaction.  He  had  either  found  the  perfect 
gamester  or  the  perfect  liar.  He  knew  the  remedy 
for  either. 

The  Chief  Factor  did  not  move,  Shon  and 


210 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


Lazenby  followed  Pierre’s  action.  By  their  positions 
Lazenby  became  his  partner.  They  played  in 
silence  for  a  minute,  the  Tall  Master  taking  all. 
“  Napoleon  was  a  wonderful  player,  but  he  lost  with 
me,”  he  said  slowly  as  he  played  a  card  upon  three 
others  and  took  them. 

Lazenby  was  so  taken  back  by  this  remark  that, 
presently,  he  trumped  his  partner’s  ace,  and  was  re¬ 
warded  by  a  talon-like  look  from  the  Tall  Master’s 
eye;  but  it  was  immediately  followed  by  one  of 
saturnine  amusement. 

They  played  on  silently. 

“  Ah,  you  are  a  wonderful  player  !  ”  he  presently 
said  to  Pierre,  with  a  look  of  keen  scrutiny.  “  Come, 
I  will  play  with  you — for  values — the  first  time  in 
seventy-five  years ;  then,  no  more  !  ” 

Lazenby  and  Shon  drew  away  beside  the  Chief 
Factor.  The  two  played.  Meanwhile  Lazenby  said 
to  Shon :  “  The  man’s  mad.  He  talks  about 

Napoleon  as  if  he’d  known  him — as  if  it  wasn’t  three- 
fourths  of  a  century  ago.  Does  he  think  we’re  all 
born  idiots?  Why,  he’s  not  over  sixty  years  old 
now.  But  where  the  deuce  did  he  come  from  with 
that  Italian  face  ?  And  the  funniest  part  of  it  is,  he 
reminds  me  of  some  one.  Did  you  notice  how  he 
limped — the  awkward  beggar  !  ” 

Lazenby  had  unconsciously  lifted  his  voice,  and 
presently  the  Tall  Master  turned  and  said  to  him; 
“  I  ran  a  nail  into  my  foot  at  Leyden  seventy-odd 
years  ago.” 

“  He’s  the  devil  himself,”  rejoined  Lazenby,  and 
he  did  not  lower  his  voice. 

“  Many  with  angelic  gifts  are  children  of  His  Dark 
Majesty,”  said  the  Tall  Master,  slowly;  and  though 


THE  TALL  MASTER. 


2II 


he  appeared  closely  occupied  with  the  game,  a  look 
of  vague  sadness  came  into  his  face. 

For  a  half-hour  they  played  in  silence,  the  slight, 
delicate-featured  half-breed,  and  the  mysterious  man 
who  had  for  so  long  been  a  thing  of  wonder  in  the 
North,  a  weird  influence  among  the  Indians. 

There  was  a  strange,  cold  fierceness  in  the  Tall 
Master’s  face.  He  now  staked  his  precious  bundle 
against  the  one  thing  Pierre  prized — the  gold  watch 
received  years  ago  for  a  deed  of  heroism  on  the 
Chaudiere.  The  half-breed  had  always  spoken  of  it 
as  amusing,  but  Shon  at  least  knew  that  to  Pierre  it 
was  worth  his  right  hand. 

Both  men  drew  breath  slowly,  and  their  eyes  were 
hard.  The  stillness  became  painful ;  all  were  pos¬ 
sessed  by  the  grim  spirit  of  Chance.  .  .  .  The  Tall 
Master  won.  Pie  came  to  his  feet,  his  shambling 
body  drawn  together  to  a  height.  Pierre  rose  also. 
Their  looks  clinched.  Pierre  stretched  out  his 
hand.  “You  are  my  master  at  this,”  he  said. 

The  other  smiled  sadly.  “  I  have  played  for  the 
last  time.  I  have  not  forgotten  how  to  win.  If  I 
had  lost,  uncommon  things  had  happened.  This,” 
— he  laid  his  hand  on  the  bundle  and  gently  undid 
it  — “  is  my  oldest  friend,  since  the  warm  days  at 
Parma.  ...  all  dead.  ...  all  dead.”  Out  of  the 
velvet  wrapping,  broidered  with  royal  and  ducal 
arms,  and  rounded  by  a  wreath  of  violets — which 
the  Chief  Faster  looked  at  closely — he  drew  his  violin. 
He  lifted  it  reverently  to  his  lips. 

“  My  good  Garnerius  !  ”  he  said.  “  Three  mas¬ 
ters  played  you,  but  I  am  chief  of  them  all.  They 
had  the  classic  soul,  but  I  the  romantic  heart — les 
grmides  Caprices'"  His  head  lifted  higher.  “  I  am 


<212 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


the  Master  Artist  of  the  World.  I  have  found  the 
core  of  Nature.  Here  in  the  North  is  the  wonderful 
soul  of  things.  Beyond  this,  far  beyond,  where  the 
foolish  think  is  only  inviolate  ice,  is  the  first  song 
of  the  Ages  in  a  very  pleasant  land.  I  am  the  lost 
Master,  and  I  shall  return,  I  shall  return  .  .  .  but 
not  yet  .  .  .  not  yet.” 

He  fetched  the  instrument  to  his  chin  with  a  noble 
pride.  The  ugliness  of  his  face  was  almost  beauti¬ 
ful  now. 

The  Chief  Factor’s  look  was  fastened  on  him  with 
bewilderment  ;  he  was  trying  to  remember  some¬ 
thing  :  his  mind  went  feeling,  he  knew  not  why,  for  a 
certain  day,  a  quarter  of  a  century  before,  when  he 
unpacked  a  box  of  books  and  papers  from  England. 
Most  of  them  were  still  in  the  Fort.  The  associa¬ 
tion  of  this  man  with  these  things  fretted  him. 

The  Tall  Master  swung  his  bow  upward,  but  at 
that  instant  there  came  a  knock,  and,  in  response 
to  a  call,  Wind  Driver  and  Wine  Face  entered. 
Wine  Face  was  certainly  a  beautiful  girl ;  and  Laz- 
enby  might  well  have  been  pardoned  for  throwing 
in  his  fate  with  such  a  heathen,  if  he  despaired  of 
ever  seeing  England  again.  The  Tall  Master  did 
not  turn  towards  these.  The  Indians  sat  gracefully 
on  a  bearskin  before  the  fire.  The  eyes  of  the  girl 
were  cast  shyly  upon  the  Man  as  he  stood  there  un¬ 
like  an  ordinary  man  ;  in  his  face  a  fine  hardness  and 
the  cold  light  of  the  North.  He  suddenly  tipped 
his  bow  upward  and  brought  it  down  with  a  most 
delicate  crash  upon  the  strings.  Then  softly,  slowly, 
he  passed  into  a  weird  fantasy.  The  Indians  sat 
breathless.  Upon  them  it  acted  more  impressively 
than  the  others :  besides,  the  player’s  eye  was 


THE  TALL  ALAS  TEE. 


213 

searching  them  now  ;  he  was  playing  into  their  very 
bodies.  And  they  responded  with  some  swift  shocks 
of  recognition  crossing  their  faces.  Suddenly  the 
old  Indian  sprang  up.  He  thrust  his  arms  out,  and 
made,  as  if  unconsciously,  some  fantastic  yet  solemn 
motions.  The  player  smiled  in  a  far-off  fashion, 
and  presently  ran  the  bow  upon  the  strings  in  an  ex¬ 
quisite  cry ;  and  then  a  beautiful  avalanche  of  sound 
slid  from  a  distance,  growing  nearer  and  nearer,  till 
it  swept  through  the  room  and  imbedded  all  in  its 
sweetness. 

At  this  the  old  Indian  threw  himself  forward  at 
the  player’s  feet.  “  It  is  the  song  of  the  White 
Weaver,  the  maker  of  the  world — the  music  from 
the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men.  ...  I  knew  it — I  knew 
it — but  never  like  that.  ...  It  was  lost  to  the 
world ;  the  wild  cry  of  the  lofty  stars.  .  .  .”  His 
face  was  wet. 

The  girl  too  had  risen.  She  came  forward  as  if 
in  a  dream  and  reverently  touched  the  arm  of  the 
musician,  who  paused  now  and  was  looking  at  them 
from  under  his  long  eyelashes.  She  said  whisper- 
ingly  :  “  Are  you  a  spirit  Do  you  come  from  the 
Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men  ?  ” 

He  answered  gravely  ;  “  I  am  no  spirit.  But  I 
have  journeyed  in  the  Hills  of  the  Mighty  Men  and 
along  their  ancient  hunting-grounds.  This  that  I 
have  played  is  the  ancient  music  of  the  world — the 
music  of  Juban  and  his  comrades.  It  comes  hum¬ 
ming  from  the  Poles  ;  it  rides  laughing  down  the 
planets  ;  it  trembles  through  the  snow  ;  it  gives  joy 
to  the  bones  of  the  wind.  .  .  .  And  I  am  the  voice 
of  it,”  he  added ;  and  he  drew  up  his  loose  unman¬ 
ageable  body  till  it  looked  enormous,  firm,  and 
dominant. 


214 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


The  girl’s  fingers  ran  softly  over  to  his  breast.^  ‘‘  I 
will  follow  you,”  she  said,  “  when  you  go  again  to 
the  Happy  Valleys.” 

Down  from  his  brow  there  swept  a  faint  hue  of 
color,  and,  for  a  breath,  his  eyes  closed  tenderly 
with  hers.  But  he  straightway  gathered  back  his 
look  again,  his  body  shrank,  not  rudely,  from  her 
fingers,  and  he  absently  said  :  “  I  am  old — in  years 
the  father  of  the  world.  It  is  a  man’s  life  gone  since, 
at  Genoa,  she  laid  her  fingers  on  my  breast  like  that. 

.  .  .  These  things  can  be  no  more  .  .  .  until  the 
North  hath  its  summer  again ;  and  I  stand  young 
— the  Master — upon  the  solemn  summits  of  my 
renown.” 

The  girl  drew  slowly  back.  Lazenby  was  mutter¬ 
ing  under  his  breath  now ;  he  was  overwhelmed  by 
this  change  in  Wine  Face.  He  had  been  impressed 
to  awe  by  The  Tall  Master’s  music,  but  he  was 
piqued,  and  determined  not  to  give  in  easily.  He 
said  sneeringly  that  Maskelyne  and  Cooke  in  music 
had  come  to  life,  and  suggested  a  snake-dance. 

The  Tall  Master  heard  these  things,  and  im¬ 
mediately  he  turned  to  Lazenby  with  an  angry  look 
on  his  face.  His  brows  hung  heavily  over  the  dull 
fire  of  his  eyes  ;  his  hair  itself  seemed  like  Medusa’s, 
just  quivering  into  savage  life ;  the  fingers  spread 
out  white  and  claw-like  upon  the  strings  as  he  curved 
the  violin  to  his  chin,  whereof  it  became,  as  it  were, 
a  piece.  The  bow  shot  out  and  down  upon  the 
instrument  with  a  great  clangor.  There  eddied  into 
a  vast  arena  of  sound  the  prodigious  elements  of  war. 
Torture  rose  from  those  four  immeasurable  cords ; 
destruction  was  afoot  upon  them  ;  a  dreadful  dance 
of  death  supervened. 


THE  TALL  MASTER. 


215 


Through  the  Chief  Factor’s  mind  there  flashed — 
though  mechanically,  and  only  to  be  remembered 
afterwards — the  words  of  a  schoolday  poem.  It 
shuttled  in  and  out  of  the  music  : 

“  Wheel  the  wild  dance, 

While  lightnings  glance, 

And  thunders  rattle  loud  ; 

And  call  the  brave  to  bloody  grave, 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud.” 

The  face  of  the  player  grew  old  and  drawn.  The 
skin  was  wrinkled,  but  shone,  the  hair  spread  white, 
the  nose  almost  met  the  chin,  the  mouth  was  all 
malice.  It  was  old  age  with  vast  power  ;  conquest 
volleyed  from  the  fingers. 

Shon  McGann  whispered  aves,  aching  with  the 
sound ;  the  Chief  Factor  shuddered  to  his  feet ; 
Lazenby  winced  and  drew  back  to  the  wall,  putting 
his  hand  before  his  face  as  though  the  sounds  were 
striking  him  ;  the  old  Indian  covered  his  head  with 
his  arms  upon  the  floor.  Wine  Face  knelt,  her  face 
all  gray,  her  fingers  lacing  and  interlacing  with  pain. 
Only  Pierre  sat  with  masterful  stillness,  his  eyes  never 
moving  from  the  face  of  the  player ;  his  arms  folded  ; 
his  feet  firmly  wedded  to  the  floor.  The  sound  be¬ 
came  strangely  distressing.  It  shocked  the  flesh  and 
angered  the  nerves.  Upon  Lazenby  it  acted  singu¬ 
larly.  He  cowered  from  it,  but  presently,  with  a 
look  of  madness  in  his  eyes,  rushed  forward,  arms 
outstretched,  as  though  to  seize  this  intolerable  min¬ 
strel.  There  was  a  sudden  pause  in  the  playing ; 
then  the  room  quaked  with  noise,  buffeting  Lazenby 
into  stillness.  The  sounds  changed  instantly  again, 
and  music  of  an  engaging  sweetness  and  delight  fell 


2i6 


FIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


about  them  as  in  silver  drops — an  enchanting  lyric 
of  love.  Its  exquisite  tenderness  subdued  Laz- 
enby,  who,  but  now,  had  a  heart  for  slaughter.  He 
dropped  on  his  knees,  threw  his  head  into  his  arms, 
and  sobbed  hard.  The  Tall  Master’s  fingers  crept 
caressingly  along  one  of  those  heavenly  veins  ol 
sound,  his  bow  poising  softly  over  it.  The  farthest 
star  seemed  singing. 

At  dawn  the  next  day  the  Golden  Dogs  were 
gathered  for  war  before  the  Fort.  Immediately  after 
the  sun  rose,  the  foe  were  seen  gliding  darkly  out 
of  the  horizon.  From  another  direction  came  two 
travelers.  These  also  saw  the  White  Hands  bear¬ 
ing  upon  the  Fort,  and  hurried  forward.  They 
reached  the  gates  of  the  Fortin  good  time,  and  were 
welcomed.  One  was  a  chief  trader  from  a  fort  in  the 
west.  He  was  an  old  man,  and  had  been  many 
years  in  the  service  of  the  H.  B.  C. ;  and,  like  Laz- 
enby,  had  spent  his  early  days  in  London,  a  connois¬ 
seur  in  all  its  pleasures  ;  the  other  was  a  voyageur. 
They  had  posted  on  quickly  to  bring  news  of  this 
crusade  of  the  White  Hands. 

The  hostile  Indians  came  steadily  to  within  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  the  Golden  Dogs.  Then  they  sent 
a  brave  to  say  that  they  had  no  quarrel  with  the 
people  of  the  Fort ;  and  that  if  the  Golden  Dogs 
came  on  they  would  battle  with  them  alone  ;  since 
the  time  had  come  for  “  one  to  be  as  both,”  as  their 
Medicine  Men  had  declared  since  the  days  of  the 
Great  Race.  And  this  signified  that  one  should 
destroy  the  other. 

At  this  all  the  Golden  Dogs  ranged  into  line.  The 
sun  shone  brightly,  the  long  hedge  of  pine  woods  in 


rHE  TALL  MASTER. 


217 

the  distance  caught  the  color  of  the  sky,  the  flowers 
of  the  plains  showed  handsomely  as  a  carpet  of  war. 
The  bodies  of  the  fighters  glistened.  You  could  see 
the  rise  and  fall  of  their  bare,  strenuous  chests. 
They  stood  as  their  forefathers  in  battle,  almost 
naked,  with  crested  head,  gleaming  axe,  scalp-knife, 
and  bows  and  arrows.  At  first  there  was  the  threat¬ 
ening  rustle  of  preparation;  then  a  great  still¬ 
ness  came  and  stayed  for  a  moment ;  after  which, 
all  at  once,  there  sped  through  the  air  a  big  shout 
of  battle,  and  the  innumerable  twang  of  flying  ar¬ 
rows  ;  and  the  opposing  hosts  ran  upon  each  other. 

Pierre  and  Shon  McGann,  watching  from  the  Fort, 
cried  out  with  excitement. 

“  Divils  me  darlin’ !  ”  called  Shon,  are  we  gluin’ 
our  eyes  to  a  chink  in  the  wall,  whin  the  tangle  of 
battle  goes  an  beyand  ?  Bedad,  I’ll  not  stand  it ! 
Look  at  them  twistin’  the  neck  o’  war  !  Open  the 
gates,  open  the  gates  1  say  I,  and  let  us  have  play 
with  our  guns  !  ” 

“Hush!  Mbn  Dieu /”  interruTpted  Fierre.  “Look 
— The  Tall  Master  !  ” 

None  at  the  Fort  had  seen  the  Tall  Master  since 
the  night  before.  Now  he  was  covering  the  space 
between  the  walls  and  the  battle,  his  hair  streaming 
behind  him. 

When  he  came  near  to  the  vortex  of  fight  he 
raised  his  violin  to  his  chin,  and  instantly  a  piercingly 
sweet  call  penetrated  the  wild  uproar.  The  Call 
filled  it,  drained  through  it,  wrapped  it,  overcame 
it ;  so  that  it  sank  away  at  last  like  the  outwash  of 
an  exhausted  tide:  the  weft  of  battle  stayed  un¬ 
finished  in  the  loom. 

Then  from  the  Indian  lodges  came  the  women 


2i5 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


and  children.  They  drew  near  to  the  unearthly 
luxury  of  that  Oall,  now  lilting  with  an  unbounded 
joy.  Battle-axes  fell  to  the  ground  ;  the  warriors 
quieted  even  where  they  stood  locked  with  their 
foes.  The  Tall  Master  now  drew  away  from  them, 
facing  the  north  and  west.  That  ineffable  Call  drew 
them  after  him  with  grave  joy  ;  and  they  brought 
their  dead  and  wounded  along.  The  women  and 
children  glided  in  among  the  men  and  followed  also. 
Presently  one  girl  ran  away  from  the  rest  and 
came  close  into  the  great  leader’s  footsteps. 

At  that  instant,  Lazenby,  from  the  wall  of  the 
Fort,  cried  out  madly,  sprang  down,  opened  the 
gates,  and  rushed  towards  the  girl,  crying:  “Wine 
Face  !  Wine  Face  !  ” 

She  did  not  look  behind.  But  he  came  close  to 
her  and  caught  her  by  the  waist.  “  Come  back  ! 
Come  back !  O  my  love,  come  back !  ”  he  urged  ; 
but  she  pushed  him  gently  from  her. 

“  Hush  !  Hush  !  ”  she  said.  “  We  are  going  to 
the  Happy  Valleys.  Don’t  you  hear  him  calling  ?  ” 
.  .  .  And  Lazenby  fell  back. 

The  Tall  Master  was  now  playing  a  wonderful 
thing,  half  dance,  half  carnival ;  but  with  that  Call 
still  beating  through  it.  They  were  passing  the 
Fort  at  an  angle.  All  within  issued  forth  to  see. 
Suddenly  the  old  trader  who  had  come  that  morning 
started  forward  with  a  cry  ;  then  stood  still.  He 
caught  the  Factor’s  arm  ;  but  he  seemed  unable  to 
speak  yet ;  his  face  was  troubled,  his  eyes  were 
hard  upon  the  player. 

The  procession  passed  the  empty  lodges,  leaving 
the  ground  strewn  with  their  weapons,  and  not  on« 
of  their  number  stayed  behind.  They  passed,  awav 


THE  TALL  ALAS  TEE.  219 

towards  the  high  hills  of  the  north-west — beautiful 
austere  barriers. 

Still  the  trader  gazed,  and  was  pale,  and  trembled. 
They  watched  long.  The  throng  of  pilgrims  grew  a 
vague  mass  ;  no  longer  an  army  of  individuals  ;  and 
the  music  came  floating  back  with  distant  charm. 
At  last  the  old  man  found  voice.  “  My  God,  it 
is - ” 

The  Factor  touched  his  arm,  interrupting  him, 
and  drew  a  picture  from  his  pocket — one  but  just 
now  taken  from  that  musty  pile  of  books,  received 
so  many  years  before.  He  showed  it  to  the  old 
man. 

“Yes,  yes,”  said  the  other,  “that  is  he.  .  .  . 
And  the  world  buried  him  forty  years  ago !  ” 

Pierre,  standing  near,  added  with  soft  irony ; 
“There  are  strange  things  in  the  world.  He  is  a 
superb  gamester  ....  a  grand  comrade.” 

The  music  came  waving  back  upon  them  deli¬ 
cately  ;  but  the  pilgrims  were  fading  from  view. 

Soon  the  watchers  were  alone  with  the  glowing 
day. 


The  Crimson  Flag. 

Talk  and  think  as  one  would,  The  Woman  was 
striking  to  see  ;  with  marvellous  flaxen  hair  and  a 
joyous  violet  eye.  She  was  all  pulse  and  dash  ;  but 
she  was  as  much  less  beautiful  than  the  manager’s 
wife  as  Tom  Liffey  was  as  nothing  beside  the  man¬ 
ager  himself  :  and  one  would  care  little  to  name  the 
two  women  in  the  same  breath  if  the  end  had  been 
different.  When  The  Woman  came  to  Little  Goshen 
there  were  others  of  her  class  there,  but  they  were 
of  a  commoner  sort  and  degree.  She  was  the  queen 
of  a  lawless  court,  though  she  never,  from  first  to 
last,  spoke  to  one  of  those  others  who  were  her 
people  ;  neither  did  she  hold  commerce  with  any  of 
the  ordinary  miners,  save  Pretty  Pierre, — but  he 
was  more  gambler  than  miner, — and  he  went,  when 
the  matter  was  all  over,  and  told  her  some  things 
that  stripped  her  soul  naked  before  her  eyes.  Pierre 
had  a  wonderful  tongue.  It  was  only  the  gentle- 
men-diggers — and  there  were  many  of  them  at 
Little  Goshen — who  called  upon  her  when  the  lights 
were  low ;  and  then  there  was  a  good  deal  of  muffled 
mirth  in  the  white  house  among  the  pines.  The 
rougher  miners  made  no  quarrel  with  this,  for  the 
gentlemen-diggers  were  popular  enough  ;  they  were 
merely  sarcastic  and  humorous,  and  said  things 
which,  coming  to  The  Woman’s  ears  made  her  very 
merry  ;  for  she  herself  had  an  abundant  wit,  and  had 
spent  wild  hours  with  clever  men.  She  did  not 


THE  CRIMSON  FLAG. 


221 


resent  the  playful  insolence  that  sent  a  dozen 
miners  to  her  house  in  the  dead  of  the  night  with  a 
crimson  flag,  which  they  quietly  screwed  to  her  roof ; 
and  paint,  with  which  they  deftly  put  a  wide  stripe 
of  scarlet  round  the  cornice,  and  another  round  the 
basement.  In  the  morning,  when  she  saw  what  had 
been  done,  she  would  not  have  the  paint  removed 
nor  the  flag  taken  down  ;  for,  she  said,  the  stripes 
looked  very  well,  and  the  other  would  show  that  she 
was  always  at  home. 

Now,  the  notable  thing  was  that  Heldon,  the 
manager,  was  in  The  Woman’s  house  on  the  night 
this  was  done.  Tom  Liffey,  the  lumpish  guide  and 
trapper,  saw  him  go  in  ;  and,  days  afterwards,  he 
said  to  Pierre  ;  “  Divils  me  own  !  but  this  is  a  bad 
hour  for  Heldon’s  wife — she  with  a  face  like  a  prin 
cess  and  eyes  like  the  fear  o’  God.  Nivir  a  wan  did 
I  see  like  her,  since  I  come  out  of  Erin  with  a  clat¬ 
ter  of  hoofs  behoind  me  and  a  squall  on  the  sea 
before.  There’s  wimmin  there  wid  cheeks  like  roses 
and  butthermilk,  and  a  touch  that’d  make  y’r  heart 
pound  on  y’r  ribs  ;  but  none  that’s  grander  than 
lleldon’s  wife.  To  lave  her  for  that  other,  standin’ 
hip-high  in  her  shame,  is  temptin’  the  flres  of 
Heaven,  say  I,  that  basted  the  sinners  o’  Sodom.” 

Pierre,  pausing  between  the  whiffs  of  a  cigarette, 
said  :  “  So  ?  But  you  know  more  of  catching  foxes 
in  winter,  and  climbing  mountains  in  summer,  and 
the  grip  of  the  arm  of  an  Injin  girl,  than  of  these 
things.  You  are  young,  quite  young  in  the  world, 
Tom  Liffey.” 

“  Young  I  may  be,  with  a  glint  o’  gray  at  me  tem¬ 
ples  from  a  night  o’  trouble  beyand  in  the  hills  ; 
but  I’m  the  man,  an’  the  only  man,  that’s  climbed 


2  22 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


to  the  glacier-top — God’s  Playground,  as  they  call 
it :  and  nivir  a  dirty  trick  have  I  done  to  Injin  girl 
or  any  other  ;  and  be  damned  to  you  there  !  say  I.” 

“  Sometimes  I  think  you  are  as  foolish  as  Shon 
McGann,”  compassionately  replied  the  half-breed. 
“  You  have  almighty  virtue,  and  you  did  that  brave 
trick  of  the  glacier ;  but  great  men  have  fallen. 
You  are  not  dead  yet.  Still,  as  you  say,  Heldon’s 
wife  is  noble  to  see.  She  is  grave  and  cold,  and 
speaks  little  ;  but  there  is  something  in  her  which  is 
not  of  the  meek  of  the  earth.  Some  women  say 
nothing,  and  suffer  and  forgive,  and  take  such  as 
Heldon  back  to  their  bosoms ;  but  there  are  others 
— I  remember  a  woman — well,  it  is  no  matter,  it  was 
long  ago  ;  but  they  two  are  as  if  born  of  one  mother ; 
and  what  comes  of  this  will  be  mad  play — mad 
play.” 

“  Av  coorse  his  wife  may  not  get  to  know  of  it, 
and - ” 

“  Not  get  to  know  it !  ’Tsh,  you  are  a  child - ” 

“  Faith,  I’ll  say  what  I  think,  and  that  in  y’r 
face  !  Maybe  he’ll  tire  of  the  handsome  rip — for 
handsome  she  is,  like  a  yellow  lily  growin’  out  o’ 
mud — and  go  back  to  his  lawful  wife,  that  believes 
he’s  at  the  mines,  when  he’s  drinkin’  and  colloguin’ 
wid  a  fly-away.” 

Pierre  slowly  wheeled  till  he  had  the  Irishman 
straight  in  his  eye.  Then  he  said  in  a  low,  cutting 
tone  :  “  I  suppose  your  heart  aches  for  the  beautiful 
lady,  eh  ?  ”  Here  he  screwed  his  slight  forefinger 
into  Tom’s  breast ;  then  he  added  sharply :  “  By 
the  holy  Heaven,  but  you  make  me  sick!  You 
talk  too  much.  Such  men  get  into  trouble.  And 
keep  down  the  riot  of  that  heart  of  yours,  Tom 


the  crimson  flag. 


223 


Liffey,  or  you’ll  walk  on  the  edge  of  knives  one  day. 
And  now  take  an  inch  of  whisky  and  ease  your 
fearful  soul.  Voila/”  After  a  moment  he  added : 
“Women  work  these  things  out  for  themselves.” 

Then  the  two  left  the  hut,  and  amiably  strolled 
together  to  the  center  of  the  village,  where  they 
parted. 

It  was  as  Pierre  had  said  :  the  woman  would  work 
the  thing  out  for  herself.  Later  that  evening  Hel- 
don’s  wife  stood  cloaked  and  veiled  in  the  shadows 
of  the  pines,  facing  the  house  with  The  Crimson 
Flag.  Her  eyes  shifted  ever  from  the  door  to  the 
flag,  which  was  stirred  by  the  light  breeze.  Once  or 
twice  she  shivered  as  with  cold,  but  she  instantly 
stilled  again,  and  watched.  It  was  midnight.  Here 
and  there  beyond  in  the  village  a  light  showed,  and 
straggling  voices  floated  faintly  towards  her.  For  a 
long  time  no  sound  came  from  the  house.  But  at 
last  she  heard  a  laugh.  At  that  she  drew  something 
from  her  pocket,  and  held  it  firmly  in  her  hand. 
Once  she  turned  and  looked  at  another  house  far 
up  on  the  hill,  where  lights  were  burning.  It  was 
Heldon’s  house — her  home.  A  sharp  sound  as  of 
anguish  and  anger  escaped  her ;  then  she  fastened 
her  eyes  on  the  door  in  front  of  her. 

At  that  moment  Tom  Liffey  was  standing  with  his 
hands  on  his  hips  looking  at  Heldon’s  home  on  the 
hill ;  and  he  said  some  rumbling  words,  then  strode 
on  down  the  road,  and  suddenly  paused  near  the 
wife.  He  did  not  see  her.  He  faced  the  door  at 
which  she  was  looking,  and  shook  his  fist  at  it. 

“  A  murrain  on  y’r  sowl  !  ”  said  he,  “  as  there’s 
plague  in  y’r  body,  and  hell  in  the  slide  of  y’r  feet, 
like  the  trail  o’  the  red  spider.  And  out  o’  that 


224 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


come  ye,  Heldon,  for  I  know  y’re  there.  Out  of 
that,  ye  beast !  .  .  .  But  how  can  ye  go  back — you 
that’s  rolled  in  that  sewer — to  the  loveliest  woman 
that  ever  trod  the  neck  o’  the  world  !  Damned 
y’  are  in  every  joint  o’  y’r  frame,  and  damned  is  y’r 
sowl,  say  I,  for  bringing  sorrow  to  her  ;  and  I  hate 
you  as  much  for  that,  as  I  could  worship  her  was 
she  not  your  wife  and  a  lady  o’  blood,  God  save 
her !  ” 

Then,  shaking  his  fist  once  more,  he  swung  away 
slowly  down  the  road.  During  this  the  wife’s  teeth 
held  together  as  though  they  were  of  a  piece.  She 
looked  after  Tom  Liffey  and  smiled  ;  but  it  was  a 
dreadful  smile. 

“  He  worships  me,  that  common  man — worships 
me  !  ”  she  said.  “  This  man  who  was  my  husband 
has  shamed  me,  left  me.  Well - ” 

The  door  of  the  house  opened  ;  a  man  came  out. 
His  wife  leaned  a  little  forward,  and  something 
clicked  ominously  in  her  hand.  But  a  voice  came 
up  the  road  towards  them  through  the  clear  air — the 
voice  of  Tom  Liffey.  The  husband  paused  to  listen ; 
the  wife  mechanically  did  the  same.  The  husband 
remembered  this  afterwards  :  it  was  the  key  to,  and 
the  beginning  of,  a  tragedy.  These  are  the  words 
the  Irishman  sang  : 

“  She  was  a  queen,  she  stood  up  there  before  me, 

My  blood  went  roarin’  when  she  touched  my  hand ; 

She  kissed  me  on  the  lips,  and  then  she  swore  me 
To  die  for  her — and  happy  was  the  land  !  ” 

A  new  and  singular  look  came  into  her  face.  It 
transformed  her.  “  That,”  she  said  in  a  whisper  to 
herself — “  that  !  He  knows  the  way.” 

As  her  husband  turned  towards  his  home,  she 


THE  CRIMSON  FLAG. 


225 


turned  also.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  garments,  and 
he  could  just  discern  the  cloaked  figure  in  the  shad¬ 
ows.  He  hurried  on ;  the  figure  flitted  ahead  of 
him.  A  fear  possessed  him  in  spite  of  his  will.  He 
turned  back.  The  figure  stood  still  for  a  moment, 
then  followed  him.  He  braced  himself,  faced  about, 
and  walked  towards  it :  it  stojjped  and  waited.  He 
had  not  the  courage.  He  went  back  again  swiftly 
towards  the  house  he  had  left.  Again  he  looked 
behind  him :  the  figure  was  standing,  not  far  in  the 
pines.  He  wheeled  suddenly  toward  the  house,  turned 
a  key  in  the  door,  and  entered. 

Then  the  wife  went  to  that  which  had  been  her 
home  ;  Heldon  did  not  go  thither  until  the  first  flush 
of  morning.  Pierre,  returning  from  an  all-night  sit¬ 
ting  at  cards,  met  him,  and  saw  the  careworn  look 
on  his  face.  The  half-breed  smiled,  for  he  knew  that 
the  event  was  doubling  on  the  man.  When  Heldon 
reached  his  house,  he  went  to  his  wife’s  room.  It 
was  locked.  Then  he  walked  down  to  his  mines 
with  a  miserable  shame  and  anger  at  his  heart.  He 
did  not  pass  The  Crimson  Flag.  He  went  by  an¬ 
other  way. 

That  evening,  in  the  dusk,  a  woman  knocked  at 
Tom  Liffey’s  door.  He  opened  it. 

“  Are  you  alone  ?  ”  she  said. 

“  I  am  alone,  lady.” 

I  will  come  in,”  she  added. 

“  You  will — come  in  1  ”  he  faltered. 

She  drew  near  him,  and  reached  out  and  gently 
caught  his  hand. 

“  Ah  !  ”  he  said,  with  a  sound  almost  like  a  sob 
in  its  intensity,  and  the  blood  flushed  to  his  hair. 

He  stepped  aside,  and  she  entered.  In  the  light 

I? 


226 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


of  the  candle  her  eye  burned  into  his,  but  her 
face  wore  a  shining  coldness.  She  leaned  towards 
him. 

“  You  said  you  could  worship  me,”  she  whispered, 
“  and  you  cursed  him.  Well — worship  me — alto¬ 
gether — and  that  will  curse  him,  as  he  has  killed 
me.” 

“  Dear  lady  !  ”  he  said,  in  an  awed,  overwhelmed 
murmur ;  and  he  fell  back  to  the  wall. 

She  came  towards  him.  “  Am  I  not  beautiful  ?  ” 
she  urged.  She  took  his  hand.  His  eye  swam 
with  hers.  But  his  look  was  different  from  hers, 
though  he  could  not  know  that.  His  was  the  mad¬ 
ness  of  a  man  in  a  dream  ;  hers  was  a  painful  thing. 
The  Furies  dwelt  in  her.  She  softly  lifted  his  hand 
above  his  head,  and  whispered :  “  Swear.”  And  she 
kissed  him.  Her  lips  were  icy,  though  he  did  not 
think  so.  The  blood  tossed  in  his  veins.  He 
swore :  but,  doing  so,  he  could  not  conceive  all  that 
would  be  required  of  him.  He  was  hers,  body  and 
soul,  and  she  had  resolved  on  a  grim  thing.  ...  In 
the  darkness,  they  left  the  hut  and  passed  into  the 
woods,  and  slowly  up  through  the  hills. 

Heldon  returned  to  his  home  that  night  to  find 
it  empty.  There  were  no  servants.  There  was  no 
wife.  Her  cat  and  dog  lay  dead  upon  the  hearth-rug ; 
her  clothing  was  cut  into  strips ;  her  wedding-dress 
was  a  charred  heap  on  the  fire-place ;  her  jewelry 
lay  molten  with  it;  her  portrait  had  been  torn  from 
its  frame. 

An  intolerable  fear  possessed  him.  Drops  of 
sweat  hung  on  his  forehead  and  his  hands ;  and  he 
fled  towards  the  town,  biting  his  finger-nails  till  they 
bled  as  he  passed  the  house  in  the  pines,  and  he 


THE  CRIMSON  FLAG. 


227 

lifted  his  arm  as  if  the  flappings  of  The  Crimson 
Flag  were  blows  in  his  face. 

At  last  he  passed  Tom  Liffey’s  hut,  and  saw 
Pierre  coming  from  it.  The  look  on  the  gambler’s 
face  was  one  of  gloomy  wonder.  His  fingers 
trembled  as  he  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  that  was  an 
unusual  thing,  dhe  form  of  Heldon  edged  within 
the  light.  Pierre  dropped  the  match  and  said  to 
him, — “  You  are  looking  for  your  wife  ?  ” 

Heldon  boAved  his  head.  The  other  threw  open 
the  door  of  the  hut.  “Come  in  here,”  he  said. 
They  entered.  Pierre  pointed  to  a  woman’s  hat  on 
the  table.  “  Do  you  know  that  ?  ”  he  asked,  husk- 
ily,  for  he  was  moved.  But  Heldon  only  nodded 
dazedly. 

Pierre  continued  ;  “  I  was  to  have  met  Tom  Liffey 
here  to-night.  He  is  not  here.  You  hoped — I  sup¬ 
pose — to  see  your  wife  in  your — home.  She  is  not 
there.  He  left  a  word  on  paper  for  me.  I  have 
torn  it  up.  Writing  is  the  enemy  of  man.  But  I 
know  where  he  is  gone  ;  I  know'  also  where  your 
wife  has  gone.” 

Heldon’s  face  was  of  a  hateful  paleness.  .  .  . 
They  passed  out  into  the  night. 

“  Where  are  you  going  ?  ”  Heldon  said. 

“To  God’s  Playground,  if  we  can  get  there.” 

“To  God’s  Playground.?  To  the  glacier-top? 
You  are  mad.” 

“  No,  but  Ae  and  she  were  mad.  Come  on.” 
Then  he  whispered  something,  and  Heldon  gave  a 
great  cry,  and  they  plunged  into  the  woods. 

In  the  morning  the  people  of  Little  Goshen,  look¬ 
ing  towards  the  glacier,  saw  a  flag  (they  knew  after¬ 
wards  that  it  was  crimson)  flying  on  it.  Near  it 


228  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

were  two  human  figures.  A  miner,  looking  through 
a  field-glass,  said  that  one  figure  was  crouching  by 
the  flag-staff,  and  that  it  was  a  woman.  The  other 
figure  near  was  a  man.  As  the  morning  wore  on, 
they  saw  upon  a  crag  of  ice  below  the  sloping 
glacier  two  men  looking  upward  towards  the  flag. 
One  of  them  seemed  to  shriek  out,  and  threw  up  his 
hands,  and  made  as  if  to  rush  forward;  but  the 
other  held  him  back. 

Heldon  knew  what  revenge  and  disgrace  may 
be  at  their  worst.  In  vain  he  tried  to  reach  God’s 
Playground.  Only  one  man  knew  the  way,  and  he 
was  dead  upon  it — with  Heldon’s  wife  :  two  shame¬ 
less  suicides.  .  .  .  When  he  came  down  from  the 
mountain  the  hair  upon  his  face  was  white,  though 
that  upon  his  head  remained  black  as  it  had  always 
been.  And  those  frozen  figures  stayed  there  like 
statues  with  that  other  crimson  flag  :  until,  one  day, 
a  great-bodied  wind  swept  out  of  the  north,  and,  in 
pity,  carried  them  down  a  bottomless  fissure. 

But  long  before  this  happened,  The  Woman  had 
fled  from  Little  Goshen  in  the  night,  and  her  house 
was  burned  to  the  ground. 


The  Flood. 


Wendling  came  to  Fort  Anne  on  the  day  that  the 
Reverend  Ezra  Badgley  and  an  unknown  girl  were 
buried.  And  that  was  a  notable  thing.  The  man 
had  been  found  dead  at  his  evening  meal ;  the  girl 
had  died  on  the  same  day ;  and  they  were  buried 
side  by  side.  This  caused  much  scandal,  for  the 
man  was  holy,  and  the  girl,  as  many  women  said, 
was  probably  evil  altogether.  At  the  graves,  when 
the  minister’s  people  saw  what  was  being  done,  they 
piously  protested ;  but  the  Factor,  to  whom  Pierre 
had  whispered  a  word,  answered  them  gravely  that 
the  matter  should  go  on  :  since  none  knew  but  the 
woman  was  as  worthy  of  heaven  as  the  man.  Wend¬ 
ling  chanced  to  stand  beside  Pretty  Pierre. 

“  Who  knows  !  ”  he  said  aloud,  looking  hard  at 
the  graves,  “  who  knows  !  .  .  .  She  died  before  him, 
but  the  dead  can  strike.” 

Pierre  did  not  answer  immediately,  for  the  Factor 
was  calling  the  earth  down  on  both  coffins  ;  but 
after  a  moment  he  added  :  “  Yes,  the  dead  can 
strike.”  And  then  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  caught 
and  stayed,  and  they  knew  that  they  had  things  to 
say  to  each  other  in  the  world. 

They  became  friends.  And  that,  perhaps,  was 
not  greatly  to  Wendling’s  credit ;  for  in  the  eyes  of 
many  Pierre  was  an  outcast  as  an  outlaw.  Maybe 
some  of  the  women  disliked  this  friendship  most  ; 
for  Wendling  was  a  handsome  man,  and  Pierre 
was  never  known  to  seek  them,  good  or  bad  ;  and 


230 


FIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


they  blamed  him  for  the  other’s  coldness,  for  his 
unconcerned  yet  respectful  eye. 

“  There’s  Nelly  Nolan  would  dance  after  him  to 
the  world’s  end,”  said  Shon  McGann  to  Pierre  one 
day ;  “  and  the  Widdy  Jerome  herself,  wid  her  flamin’ 
cheeks  and  the  wild  fun  in  her  eye,  croons  like  a 
babe  at  the  breast  as  he  slides  out  his  cash  on  the 
bar ;  and  over  on  Gansonby’s  Flat  there’s - ” 

“  There’s  many  a  fool,”  sharply  interjected  Pierre, 
as  he  pushed  the  needle  through  a  button  he  was 
sewing  on  his  coat. 

“  Bedad,  there’s  a  pair  of  fools  here,  anyway,  say 
I ;  for  the  women  might  die  without  lift  at  waist  or 
brush  of  lip,  and  neither  of  ye’d  say,  ‘  Here’s  to  the 
joy  of  us,  goddess,  me  own  !  ’  ” 

Pierre  seemed  to  be  intently  watching  the  needle¬ 
point  as  it  pierced  up  the  button-eye,  and  his  reply 
was  given  with  a  slowness  corresponding  to  the 
sedate  passage  of  the  needle.  “  Wendling,  you 
think,  cares  nothing  for  women  ?  Well,  men  who 
are  like  that  cared  once  for  one  woman,  and  when 
that  was  over — but,  pshaw  !  I  will  not  talk.  You 
are  no  thinker,  Shon  McGann.  You  blunder  through 
the  world.  And  you’ll  tremble  as  much  to  a  woman’s 
thumb  in  fifty  years  as  now.” 

“  By  the  holy  smoke,”  said  Shon,  “  though  I 
tremble  at  that,  maybe,  I’ll  not  tremble,  as  Wend¬ 
ling,  at  nothing  at  all.”  Here  Pierre  looked  up 
sharply,  then  dropped  his  eyes  on  his  work  again. 
Shon  lapsed  suddenly  into  a  moodiness. 

“Yes,”  said  Pierre,  “as  Wendling,  at  nothing  at 
all  ?  Well  ?  ” 

“Well,  this,  Pierre,  for  you  that’s  a  thinker  from 
me  that’s  none.  I  was  walking  with  him  in  Red 
Glen  yesterday.  Sudden  he  took  to  shiverin’,  and 


THE  FLOOD. 


231 


snatched  me  by  the  arm,  and  a  mad  look  shot  out  of 
his  handsome  face.  ‘  Hush  !  ’  says  he.  I  listened. 
There  was  a  sound  like  the  hard  rattle  of  a  creek 
over  stones,  and  then  another  sound  behind  that. 
‘  Come  quick,’  says  he,  the  sweat  standin’  thick  on 
him  ;  and  he  ran  me  up  the  bank — for  it  was  at  the 
beginnin’  of  the  Glen  where  the  sides  were  low — and 
there  we  stood  pantin’  and  starin’  flat  at  each  other. 
‘  What’s  that  ?  and  what’s  got  its  hand  on  ye  ?  for  y’ 
are  cold  as  death,  an’  pinched  in  the  face,  an’  you’ve 
bruised  my  arm,’  said  I.  And  he  looked  round  him 
slow  and  breathed  hard,  then  drew  his  fingers 
through  the  sweat  on  his  cheek.  ‘  I’m  not  well,  and 
I  thought  I  heard — you  heard  it ;  what  was  it  like  ’ 
said  he  ;  and  he  peered  close  at  me.  ‘  Like  water,’ 
said  I ;  ‘  a  little  creek  near,  and  a  flood  cornin’  far  off.’ 
‘  Yes,  just  that,’  said  he  ;  ‘  it’s  some  trick  of  wind 
in  the  place,  but  it  makes  a  man  foolish,  and  an  inch 
of  brandy  would  be  the  right  thing.’  I  didn’t  say 
No  to  that.  And  on  we  came,  and  brandy  we  had 
with  a  wish  in  the  eye  of  Nelly  Nolan  that’d  warm 
the  heart  of  a  tomb.  .  .  .  And  there’s  a  cud  for  your 
chewin’,  Pierre.  Think  that  by  the  neck  and  the 
tail,  and  the  divil  absolve  you.” 

During  this,  Pierre  had  finished  with  the  button. 
He  had  drawn  on  his  coat  and  lifted  his  hat,  and 
now  lounged,  trying  the  point  of  the  needle  with  his 
forefinger.  When  Shon  ended,  he  said  with  a  side¬ 
long  glance  :  “  But  what  did  you  think  of  all  that, 
Shon  ?  ” 

“  Think !  There  it  was !  What’s  the  use  of 
thinkin’  1  There’s  many  a  trick  in  the  world  with 
wind  or  with  spirit,  as  I’ve  seen  often  enough  in  ould 
Ireland,  and  it’s  not  to  be  guessed  by  me.  Here 
his  voice  got  a  little  lower  and  a  trifle  solemn. 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


232 

“  For,  Pierre,”  spoke  he,  “  there’s  what’s  more  than 
life  or  death,  and  sorra  wan  can  we  tell  what  it  is  ; 
but  we’ll  know  some  day  whin - ” 

“  When  we’ve  taken  the  leap  at  the  Almighty 
Ditch,”  said  Pierre,  with  a  grave  kind  of  lightness. 
“  Yes,  it  is  all  strange.  But  even  the  Almighty 
Ditch  is  worth  the  doing  ;  nearly  everything  is  worth 
the  doing ;  being  young,  growing  old,  fighting,  loving 
— when  youth  is  on — hating,  eating,  drinking,  work¬ 
ing,  playing  big  games :  all  is  worth  it  except  two 
things.” 

“  And  what  are  they,  bedad  ?  ” 

“  Thy  neighbor’s  wife  :  murder. — Those  are  hor- 
rible.  They  double  on  a  man  one  time  or  another ; 
always.” 

Here,  as  if  in  curiosity,  Pierre  pierced  his  finger  with 
the  needle,  and  watched  the  blood  form  in  a  little 
globule.  Looking  at  it  meditatively  and  sardonically, 
he  said :  “  There  is  only  one  end  to  these.  Blood  for 
blood  is  a  great  matter ;  and  I  used  to  wonder  if  it 
would  not  be  terrible  for  a  man  to  see  his  death  com¬ 
ing  on  him  drop  by  drop,  like  that.”  And  he  let  the 
spot  of  blood  fall  to  the  floor.  ‘‘  But  now  I  know  that 
there  is  a  punishment  worse  than  that  .  .  .  mo7i  Dieu  ! 
worse  than  that,”  he  added. 

Into  Shon’s  face  a  strange  look  had  suddenly 
come.  “Yes,  there’s  something  worse  than  that, 
Pierre.” 

“  So — Men  ?  ” 

Shon  made  the  sacred  gesture  of  his  creed.  “To 
be  punished  by  the  dead.  And  not  see  them — only 
hear  them.”  And  his  eyes  steadied  firmly  to  the 
other’s. 

Pierre  was  about  to  reply,  but  there  came  the 
sound  of  footsteps  through  the  open  door,  and  pres- 


THE  FLOOD. 


233 


ently  Wendling  entered  slowly.  He  was  pale  and 
worn,  and  his  eyes  looked  out  with  a  searching  anx¬ 
iousness.  But  that  did  not  render  him  less  comely. 
He  had  always  dressed  in  black  and  white,  and  this 
now  added  to  the  easy  and  yet  severe  refinement  of 
his  person.  His  birth  and  breeding  had  occurred 
in  places  unfrequented  by  such  as  Shon  and  Pierre  ; 
but  plains  and  wild  life  level  all ;  and  men  are  friends 
according  to  their  taste  and  will  and  by  no  other 
law.  Hence  these  with  Wendling.  He  stretched 
out  his  hand  to  each  without  a  word.  The  hand¬ 
shake  was  unusual ;  he  had  little  demonstration 
ever.  Shon  looked  up  surprised,  but  responded. 
Pierre  followed  with  a  swift,  inquiring  look  ;  then, 
in  the  succeeding  pause,  he  offered  cigarettes. 
Wendling  took  one ;  and  all,  silent,  sat  down. 
The  sun  streamed  intemperately  through  the 
doorway,  making  a  broad  ribbon  of  light  straight 
across  the  floor  to  Wendling’s  feet.  After  lighting 
his  cigarette,  he  looked  into  the  sunlight  for  a 
moment,  still  not  speaking.  Shon  meanwhile  had 
started  his  pipe,  and  now,  as  if  he  found  the  silence 
awkward, — “  It’s  a  day  for  God’s  country,  this,”  he 
said  :  “  to  make  man  a  Christian  for  little  or  much, 
though  he  play  with  the  Divilbetune  whiles.”  With¬ 
out  looking  at  them,  Wendling  said,  in  a  low  voice  : 
“  It  was  just  such  a  day,  down  there  in  Quebec, 
when  it  happened.  You  could  hear  the  swill  of  the 
river,  and  the  water  licking  the  piers,  and  the  saws 
in  the  Big  Mill  and  the  Little  Mill  as  they  marched 
through  the  timber,  flashing  their  teeth  like  bayonets. 
It’s  a  wonderful  sound  on  a  hot,  clear  day — that  wild, 
keen  singing  of  the  saws,  like  the  cry  of  a  live  thing 
fighting  and  conquering.  Up  from  the  fresh-cut 
lumber  in  the  yards  there  came  a  smell  like  the  juice 


234 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


of  apples,  and  the  sawdust,  as  you  thrust  your  hand 
into  it,  was  as  cool  and  soft  as  the  leaves  of  a  clove- 
flower  in  the  dew.  On  these  days  the  town  was 
always  still.  It  looked  sleeping,  and  you  saw  the 
heat  quivering  up  from  the  wooden  walls  and  the 
roofs  of  cedar  shingles  as  though  the  houses  were 
breathing.” 

Here  he  paused,  still  intent  on  the  shaking  sun¬ 
shine.  Then  he  turned  to  the  others  as  if  suddenly 
aware  that  he  had  been  talking  to  them.  Shon  was 
about  to  speak,  but  Pierre  threw  a  restraining  glance, 
and,  instead,  they  all  looked  through  the  doorway 
and  beyond.  In  the  settlement  below  they  saw  the 
effect  .that  Wendling  had  described.  The  houses 
breathed.  A  grassliopper  went  clacking  past,  a  dog 
at  the  door  snapped  up  a  fly  ;  but  there  seemed  no 
other  life  of  day.  Wendling  nodded  his  head  to¬ 
wards  the  distance.  “  It  was  quiet,  like  that.  I 
stood  and  watched  the  mills  and  the  yards,  and 
listened  to  the  saws,  and  looked  at  the  great  slide, 
and  the  logs  on  the  river  :  and  I  said  ever  to  myself 
that  it  was  all  mine ;  all.  Then  I  turned  to  a  big 
house  on  the  hillock  beyond  the  cedars,  whose 
windows  were  open,  with  a  cool  dusk  lying  behind 
them.  More  than  all  else,  I  loved  to  think  I  owned 
that  house  and  what  was  in  it.  .  .  .  She  was  a  beauti¬ 
ful  woman.  And  she  used  to  sit  in  a  room  facing 
the  mill — though  the  house  fronted  another  way — 
thinking  of  me,  I  did  not  doubt,  and  working  at 
some  delicate  needle-stuff.  There  never  had  been 
a  sharp  word  between  us,  save  when  I  quarreled 
bitterly  with  her  brother,  and  he  left  the  mill  and 
went  away.  But  she  got  over  that  mostly,  though 
the  lad’s  name  was  never  mentioned  between  us. 
That  day  I  was  so  hungry  for  the  sight  of  her  that  I 


THE  FLOOD. 


235 


got  my  field-glass — used  to  watch  my  vessels  and 
rafts  making  across  the  bay — and  trained  it  on  the 
window  where  I  knew  she  sat.  I  thought  it  would 
amuse  her  too,  when  I  went  back  at  night,  if  I  told 
her  what  she  had  been  doing.  I  laughed  to  myself  at 
the  thought  of  it  as  I  adjusted  the  glass.  ...  I  looked 
....  There  was  no  more  laughing.  ...  I  saw  her, 
and  in  front  of  her  a  man,  with  his  back  half  on  me. 
I  could  not  recognize  him,  though  at  the  instant  I 
thought  he  was  something  familiar.  I  failed  to  get 
his  face  at  all.  Hers  I  found  indistinctly.  But  I 
saw  him  catch  her  playfully  by  the  chin  !  After  a 
little  they  rose.  He  put  his  arm  about  her  and  kissed 
her,  and  he  ran  his  fingers  through  her  hair.  She 
had  such  fine  golden  hair ;  so  light,  and  lifted  to 
every  little  wind.  .  .  .  Something  got  into  my  brain. 
I  know  now  it  was  the  maggot  which  sent  Othello 
mad.  The  world  in  that  hour  was  malicious, 
awful.  .  .  . 

“  After  a  time — it  seemed  ages :  she  and  every¬ 
thing  had  receded  so  far — I  went  .  .  .  home.  At  the 
door  I  asked  the  servant  who  had  been  there.  She 
hesitated,  confused,  and  then  said  the  young  curate 
of  the  parish.  I  was  very  cool :  for  madness  is  a 
strange  thing ;  you  see  everything  with  an  intense 
aching  clearness — that  is  the  trouble.  .  .  .  She  was 
more  kind  than  common.  I  do  not  think  I  was  un¬ 
usual.  I  was  playing  a  part  well, — my  grandmother 
had  Indian  blood  like  yours,  Pierre, — and  I  was 
waiting.  I  was  even  nicely  critical  of  her  to  myself. 
I  balanced  the  mole  on  her  neck  against  her  general 
beauty ;  the  curve  of  her  instep,  I  decided,  was  a 
little  too  emphatic.  I  passed  her  back  and  forth  be¬ 
fore  me,  weighing  her  at  every  point ;  but  yet  these 
two  things  were  the  only  imperfections.  I  pronounced 


PIERR2  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


236 

her  an  exceeding  piece  of  art — and  infamy.  I  was 
much  interested  to  see  how  she  could  appear  perfect 
in  her  soul,  I  encouraged  her  to  talk.  I  saw  with 
devilish  irony  that  an  angel  spoke.  And,  to  cap  it 
all,  she  assumed  the  fascinating  air  of  the  mediator 
— for  her  brother  ;  seeking  a  reconciliation  between 
us.  Her  amazing  art  of  person  and  mind  so  worked 
upon  me  that  it  became  unendurable ;  it  was  so 
exquisite — and  so  shameless.  I  was  sitting  where 
the  priest  had  sat  that  afternoon ;  and  when  she 
leaned  towards  me  I  caught  her  chin  lightly  and 
trailed  my  fingers  through  her  hair  as  he  had  done  ; 
and  that  ended  it,  for  I  was  cold,  and  my  heart 
worked  with  horrible  slowness.  Just  as  a  wave 
poises  at  its  height  before  breaking  upon  the  shore, 
it  hung  at  every  pulse-beat,  and  then  seemed  to  fall 
over  with  a  sickening  thud.  I  arose,  and,  acting 
still,  spoke  impatiently  of  her  brother.  Tears  sprang 
to  her  eyes.  Such  divine  dissimulation,  I  thought 
— too  good  for  earth.  She  turned  to  leave  the  room, 
and  I  did  not  stay  her.  Yet  we  were  together  again 
that  night.  ...  I  was  only  waiting.” 

The  cigarette  had  dropped  from  his  fingers  to  the 
floor,  and  lay  there  smoking.  Shon’s  face  was  fixed 
with  anxiety  ;  Pierre’s  eyes  played  gravely  with  the 
sunshine.  Wendling  drew  a  heavy  breath,  and  then 
went  on, 

“  Again,  next  day,  it  was  like  this — the  world 
draining  the  heat.  ...  I  watched  from  the  Big  Mill. 
I  saw  them  again.  He  leaned  over  her  chair  and 
buried  his  face  in  her  hair.  The  proof  was  absolute 
now.  ...  I  started  away,  going  a  roundabout,  that 
I  might  not  be  seen.  It  took  me  some  time.  I 
was  passing  through  a  clump  of  cedar  when  I  saw 
them  making  towards  the  trees  skirting  the  river. 


THE  FLOOD. 


237 


Their  backs  were  on  me.  Suddenly  they  diverted 
their  steps  towards  the  great  slide,  shut  off  from 
water  this  last  few  months,  and  used  as  a  quarry  to 
deepen  it.  Some  petrified  things  had  been  found  in 
the  rocks,  but  I  did  not  think  they  were  going  to 
these.  I  saw  them  climb  down  the  rocky  steps  and 
presently  they  were  lost  to  view.  The  gates  of  the 
slide  could  be  opened  by  machinery  from  the  Little 
Mill.  A  terrible,  deliciously  malignant  thought  came 
to  me.  I  remember  how  the  sunlight  crept  away  from 
me  and  left  me  in  the  dark.  I  stole  through  that 
darkness  to  the  Little  Mill.  I  went  to  the  machinery 
for  opening  the  gates.  Very  gently  I  set  it  in  motion, 
facing  the  slide  as  I  did  so.  I  could  see  it  through 
the  open  sides  of  the  mill.  I  smiled  to  think  what 
the  tiny  creek,  always  creeping  through  a  faint  leak 
in  the  gates  and  falling  with  a  granite  rattle  on  the 
stones,  would  now  become.  I  pushed  the  lever 
harder — harder.  I  saw  the  gates  suddenly  give,  then 
fly  open,  and  the  river  sprang  roaring  massively 
through  them.  I  heard  a  shriek  through  the  roar,  and 
I  shuddered ;  and  a  horrible  sickness  came  on  me. 
.  .  .  And  as  I  turned  from  the  machinery,  I  saw  the 
young  priest  coming  at  me  through  a  doorway  !  .  .  . 
It  was  not  the  priest  and  my  wife  that  I  had  killed ; 
but  my  wife  and  her  brother.  .  .  .” 

He  threw  his  head  back  as  though  something 
clamped  his  throat.  His  voice  roughened  with  mis¬ 
ery  : — “  The  young  priest  buried  them  both,  and  people 
did  not  know  the  truth  ;  they  were  most  sorry  for  me. 
But  I  gave  up  the  mills— all ;  and  I  became  homeless 
.  .  .  .  this.” 

Now  he  looked  up  at  the  two  men,  and  said :  “  I 
have  told  you  because  you  know  something,  and  be* 
cause  there  will,  I  think,  be  an  end  soon.”  He  got 


238 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


up  and  reached  out  a  trembling  hand  for  a  cigarette. 
Pierre  gave  him  one.  “  Will  you  walk  with  me  ?  ”  he 
asked. 

Shon  shook  his  head.  “  God  forgive  you  !  ”  he 
replied ;  “  I  can’t  do  it.” 

But  Wendling  and  Pierre 
They  walked  for  an  hour, 
not  considering  where  they 
mechanically  turned  to  go 


left  the  hut  together, 
scarcely  speaking,  and 
went.  At  last  Pierre 
down  into  Red  Glen. 


Wendling  stopped  short,  then,  with  a  sighing  laugh, 
strode  on.  “  Shon  has  told  you  what  happened 
here  ?  ”  he  said. 

Pierre  nodded. 

“And  you  know  what  came  once  when  you  walked 
with  me.  .  .  .  The  dead  can  strike,”  he  added. 

Pierre  sought  his  eye.  “  The  minister  and  the  girl 
buried  together  that  day,”  he  said,  “  were - ” 

He  stopped,  for  behind  him  he  heard  the  sharp, 
cold  trickle  of  water.  Silent  they  walked  on.  It 
followed  them.  They  could  not  get  out  of  the  Glen 
now  until  they  had  compassed  its  length — the  walls 
were  high.  The  sound  grew.  The  men  faced  each 
other.  “  Good-bye,”  said  Wendling ;  and  he  reached 
out  his  hand  swiftly.  But  Pierre  heard  a  mighty 
flood  groaning  on  them,  and  he  blinded  as  he 
stretched  his  arm  in  response.  He  caught  at 
Wendling’s  shoulder,  but  felt  him  lifted  and  carried 
away,  while  he  himself  stood  still  in  a  screeching 
wind  and  heard  impalpable  water  rushing  over  him. 
In  a  minute  it  was  gone ;  and  he  stood  alone  in  Red 
Glen. 


He  gathered  himself  up  and  ran.  Far  down,  where 
the  Glen  opened  to  the  plain,  he  found  Wendling. 
The  hands  were  wrinkled  ;  the  face  was  cold ;  the 
body  was  wet :  the  man  was  drowned  and  dead. 


In  Pipi  Valley. 

“  Divils  me  darlins,  it’s  a  memory  I  have  of  a 
time  whin  luck  wasn’t  foldin’  her  arms  round  me, 
and  not  so  far  back  aither,  and  I  on  the  wallaby 
track  hotfoot  for  the  City  o’  Gold.” 

Shon  McGann  said  this  in  the  course  of  a  dis¬ 
cussion  on  the  prosperity  of  the  Pipi  Valley.  Pretty 
Pierre  remarked  nonchalantly  in  reply, — “  The 
wallaby  track — eh — what  is  that,  Shon  ?  ” 

“  It’s  a  bit  of  a  haythen  y’  are,  Pierre, — the  wallaby 
track  ? — that’s  the  name  in  Australia  for  trampin’ 
west  through  the  plains  o’  the  Never  Never  Country 
lookin’  for  the  luck  o’  the  world  ;  as,  bedad,  it’s 
meself  that  knows  it,  and  no  other,  and  not  by  book 
or  tellin’  either,  but  with  the  grip  of  thirst  at  me 
throat  and  a  reef  in  me  belt  every  hour  to  quiet  the 
gnawin’  ;  ” — and  Shon  proceeded  to  light  his  pipe 
afresh. 

“  But  the  City  o’  Gold — was  there  much  wealth 
for  you  there,  Shon  ?  ” 

Shon  laughed,  and  said  between  the  puffs  of  smoke, 
— “  Wealth  for  me,  is  it  ?  Oh,  mother  o’  Moses  ! 
wealth  of  work  and  the  pride  of  livin’  in  the  heart  of 
us,  and  the  grip  of  an  honest  hand  betune  whiles ; 
and  what  more  do  y’  want,  Pierre  ?  ” 

The  Frenchman’s  drooping  eyelids  closed  a  little 
more,  and  he  replied,  meditatively, — “  Money  ? — no, 


240 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


that  is  not,  Shon  McGann.  The  good  fellowship  of 
thirst  ? — yes,  a  little.  The  grip  of  the  honest  hand 
— quite  ;  and  the  clinch  of  an  honest  waist  ?  well, 
perhaps  ;  of  the  waist  which  is  not  honest  ? — tsh  ;  he 
is  gay — and  so  !  ” 

The  Irishman  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and 
held  it  poised  before  him.  He  looked  inquiringly 
and  a  little  frowningly  at  the  other  for  a  moment,  as 
if  doubtful  whether  to  resent  the  sneer  that  accom¬ 
panied  the  words  just  spoken  ;  but  at  last  he  good- 
humoredly  said :  “  Blood  o’  me  bones,  but  it’s 
much  I  fear  the  honest  waist  hasn’t  always  been  me 
portion — Heaven  forgive  me  !  ” 

“  La,  ic,  la,  this  Irishman  !  ”  replied  Pierre. 
“  He  is  gay  ;  of  good  heart ;  he  smiles,  and  the  women 
are  at  his  heels  ;  he  laughs,  and  they  are  on  their 
knees — he  is  a  fool  !  ” 

Still  Shon  McGann  laughed. 

“  A  fool  I  am,  Pierre,  or  I’d  be  in  ould  Ireland  at 
this  minute,  with  a  roof  o’  me  own  over  me  and 
the  friends  o’  me  youth  round  me,  and  brats  on  me 
knee,  and  the  fear  o’  God  in  me  heart.” 

“  Mais,  Shon,”  mockingly  rejoined  the  Frenchman, 
“  this  is  not  Ireland,  but  there  is  much  like  that  to 
be  done  here.  There  is  a  roof,  and  there  is  that 
woman  at  Ward’s  Mistake,  and  the  brats — eh,  by 
and  by  ?  ” 

Shon’s  face  clouded  ;  he  hesitated,  then  replied 
sharply ;  “  That  woman,  do  y’  say,  Pierre,  she  that 
nursed  me  when  The  Honorable  and  meself  were 
taken  out  o’  Sandy  Drift,  more  dead  than  livin’ ;  she 
that  brought  me  back  to  life  as  good  as  ever,  barrin’ 
this  scar  on  me  forehead  and  a  stiffness  at  me  elbow, 
and  The  Honorable  as  right  as  the  sun,  more  luck  to 


IN  PIFI  VALLEY. 


241 


Iiini, — which  he  doesn’t  need  at  all,  with  the  wind  of 
fortune  in  his  back  and  shiftin’  neither  to  right  nor 
left ! — That  woman  !  faith,  y’d  better  not  cut  the 
words  so  sharp  betune  yer  teeth,  Pierre.” 

“  But  I  will  say  more — a  little — just  the  same. 
She  nursed  you — well,  that  is  good ;  but  it  is  good 
also,  I  think,  you  pay  her  for  that,  and  stop  the  rest. 
Women  are  fools,  or  else  they  are  worse.  This  one.? 

she  is  worse.  Yes  ;  you  will  take  my  advice,  Shon 
McGann.” 

_  The  Irishman  came  to  his  feet  with  a  spring,  and 
his  words  were  angry. 

“  It  doesn’t  come  well  from  Pretty  Pierre,  the 
gambler,  to  be  revilin’  a  woman  ;  and  I  throw  ii  in 
y’r  face,  though  I’ve  slept  under  the  same  blanket 
with  ye,  an’  drank  out  of  the  same  cup  on  many  a 
tramp,  that  you  lie  dirty  and  black  when  ye  spake 
ill — of  my  wife.” 

This  conversation  had  occurred  in  a  quiet  corner 
of  the  bar-room  of  the  Saints’  Repose.  The  first 
few  sentences  had  not  been  heard  by  the  others 
present ;  but  Shon’s  last  speech,  delivered  in  a  ring¬ 
ing  tone,  drew  the  miners  to  their  feet,  in  expecta¬ 
tion  of  seeing  shots  exchanged  at  once.  The  code 
required  satisfaction,  immediate  and  decisive.  Shon 
was  not  armed,  and  some  one  thrust  a  pistol  towards 
him ;  but  he  did  not  take  it.  Pierre  rose,  and  com¬ 
ing  slowly  to  him,  laid  a  slender  finger  on  his  chest, 
and  said  ; 

“  So !  I  did  not  know  that  she  was  your  wife. 
That  is  a^surprise.” 

The  miners  nodded  assent.  He  continued  : 

“  Lucy  Rives  your  wife  !  Ha,  ha,  Shon  McGann, 
that  is  such  a  joke.” 

16 


242 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  It’s  no  joke,  but  God’s  truth,  and  the  lie  is  with 
you,  Pierre.” 

Murmurs  of  anticipation  ran  round  the  room  ; 
but  the  Frenchman  said  :  “  There  will  be  satisfaction 
altogether ;  but  it  is  my  whim  to  prove  what  I  say 
first ;  then  ” — fondling  his  revolver — “then  we  shall 
settle !  But,  see :  you  will  meet  me  here  at  ten 
o’clock  to-night,  and  I  will  make  it,  I  swear  to  you, 
so  clear,  that  the  woman  is  vile.” 

The  Irishman  suddenly  clutched  the  gambler, 
shook  him  like  a  dog,  and  threw  him  against  the 
farther  wall.  Pierre’s  pistol  was  leveled  from  the 
instant  Shon  moved  ;  but  he  did  not  use  it.  He 
rose  on  one  knee  after  the  violent  fall,  and  pointing 
it  at  the  other’s  head,  said  coolly  ;  I  could  kill  you,  my 
friend,  so  easy  !  But  it  is  not  my  whim.  Till  ten 
o’clock  is  not  long  to  wait,  and  then,  just  here,  one  of 
us  shall  die.  Is  it  not  so  ?  ” 

The  Irishman  did  not  flinch  before  the  pistol. 
He  said  with  low  fierceness  :  “  At  ten  o’clock,  or 
now,  or  any  time,  or  at  any  place,  y’ll  find  me  ready 
to  break  the  back  of  the  lies  y’ve  spoken,  or  be 
broken  meself.  Lucy  Rives  is  my  wife,  and  she’s 
true  and  straight  as  the  sun  in  the  sky.  I’ll  be  here 
at  ten  o’clock,  and  as  ye  say,  Pierre,  one  of  us  makes 
the  long  reckoning  for  this.”  And  he  opened  the 
door  and  went  out. 

The  half-breed  moved  to  the  bar,  and,  throwing 
down  a  handful  of  silver,  said  :  “  It  is  good  we 
drink  after  so  much  heat.  Come  on,  come  on, 
comrades.” 

The  miners  responded  to  the  invitation.  Their 
sympathy  was  mostly  with  Shon  McGann  ;  their  ad¬ 
miration  was  about  equally  divided  ;  for  Pretty 


IN  FI  PI  VALLEY. 


243 

Pierre  had  the  quality  of  courage  in  as  active  a 
degree  a,s  the  Irishinan,  and  they  knew  that  some 
extraordinary  motive,  promising  greater  excitement, 
was  behind  the  Frenchman’s  refusal  to  send  a  bullet 
through  Shon’s  head  a  moment  before. 

King  Kinkley,  the  best  shot  in  the  Valley  next  to 
Pierre,  had  watched  the  unusual  development  of  the 
incident  with  interest ;  and  when  his  glass  had  been 
filled  he  said,  thoughtfully  :  ‘‘  This  thing  isn’t 

according  to^  Hoyle.  There’s  never  been  any  trouble 
just  like  it  in  the  Valley  before.  What’s  that  Mc- 
Gann  said  about  the  lady  bein’  his  wife  1  If  it’s 
the  case,  where  hev  we  been  in  the  show .?  Where 
was  we  when  the  license  was  around  ?  It  isn’t  good 
citizenship,  and  I  hev  my  doubts.” 

Another  miner,  known  as  the  Presbyterian,  added  : 
“  There’s  some  skulduggery  in  it,  I  guess.  The 
lady  has  had  as  much  protection  as  if  she  was  the 
sister  of  every  citizen  of  the  place,  just  as  much  as 
Lady  Jane  here  (Lady  Jane,  the  daughter  of  the 
proprietor  of  the  Saints’  Repose,  administered 
drinks),  and  she’s  played  this  stacked  hand  on  us, 
has  gone  one  better  on  the  sly.” 

“Pierre,”  said  King  Kinkley,  “you’re  on  the 
track  of  the  secret,  and  appear  to  hev  the  advantage 
of  the  lady ;  blaze  it — blaze  it  out.” 

Pierre  rejoined :  “  I  know  something ;  but  it  is 
good  we  wait  until  ten  o’clock.  Then  I  will  show  you 
all  the  cards  in  the  pack.  Yes,  so,” 

And  though  there  was  some  grumbling,  Pierre 
had  his  way.  The  spirit  of  adventure  and’  mutual 
interest  had  thrown  the  Frenchman,  the  Irishman, 
and  the  Honorable  Just  Trafford  together  on  the 
cold  side  of  the  Canadian  Rockies  ;  and  they  had 


244 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


journeyed  to  this  other  side,  where  the  warm  breath 
from  the  Pacific  passed  to  its  congealing  in  the 
ranges.  They  had  come  to  the  Pipi  field  when  it 
was  languishing.  From  the  moment  of  their  coming 
its  luck  changed  ;  it  became  prosperous.  They 
conquered  the  Valley  each  after  his  kind.  The 
Honorable — he  was  always  called  that — mastered 
its  resources  by  a  series  of  “  great  lucks,”  as  Pierre 
termed  it,  had  achieved  a  fortune,  and  made  no 
enemies  ;  and  but  two  months  before  the  day  whose 
incidents  are  here  recorded,  had  gone  to  the  coast 
on  business,  Shon  had  won  the  reputation  of  being 
a  “  white  man,”  to  say  nothing  of  his  victories  in  the 
region  of  gallantry.  He  made  no  wealth  ;  he  only 
got  that  he  might  spend.  Irishman-like,  he  would 
barter  the  chances  of  fortune  for  the  lilt  of  a  voice 
or  the  clatter  of  a  pretty  foot. 

Pierre  was  different.  “  Women,  ah,  no  !  ”  he 
would  say  ;  “  they  make  men  fools  or  devils.” 

His  temptation  lay  not  that  way.  When  the  three 
first  came  to  the  Pipi,  Pierre  was  a  miner,  simply ; 
but  nearly  all  his  life  he  had  been  something  else, 
as  many  a  devastated  pocket  on  the  east  of  the 
Rockies  could  bear  witness ;  and  his  new  career 
was  alien  to  his  soul.  Temptation  grew  greatly  on 
him  at  the  Pipi,  and  in  the  days  before  he  yielded 
to  it  he  might  have  been  seen  at  midnight  in  his 
hut  playing  solitaire.  Why  he  abstained  at  first 
from  practicing  his  real  profession  is  accounted  for 
in  two  ways ;  he  had  tasted  some  of  the  sweets 
of  honest  companionship  with  The  Honorable  and 
Shon,  and  then  he  had  a  memory  of  an  ugly  night 
at  Pardon’s  Drive  a  year  before,  when  he  stood 
over  his  own  brother’s  body,  shot  to  death  by  acci- 


IN  PIPI  VALLEY. 


245 


dent  in  a  gambling  row  having  its  origin  with  hinv 
self.  These  things  had  held  him  back  for  a  time  ; 
but  he  was  weaker  than  his  ruling  passion. 

The  Pipi  was  a  young  and  comparatively  virgin 
field  ;  the  quarry  was  at  his  hand.  He  did  not  love 
money  for  its  own  sake  ;  it  was  the  game  that  en¬ 
thralled  him.  He  would  have  played  his  life  against 
the  treasury  of  a  kingdom,  and,  winning  it  with  loaded 
double  sixes,  have  handed  back  the  spoil  as  an  un¬ 
redeemable  national  debt. 

He  fell  at  last,  and  in  falling  conquered  the  Pipi 
Valley  ;  at  the  same  time  he  was  considered  a  fear-  , 
less  and  liberal  citizen,  who  could  shoot  as  straight 
as  he  played  well.  He  made  an  excursion  to  an¬ 
other  field,  however,  at  an  opportune  time,  and  it 
was  during  this  interval  that  the  accident  to  Shon 
and  The  Plonorable  had  happened.  He  returned 
but  a  few  hours  before  this  quarrel  with  Shon 
occurred,  and  in  the  Saints’  Repose,  whither  he  had 
at  once  gone,  he  was  told  of  the  accident.  While 
his  informant  related  the  incident  and  the  romantic 
sequence  of  Shon’s  infatuation,  the  woman  passed 
the  tavern  and  was  pointed  out  to  Pierre.  The 
Frenchman  had  not  much  excitableness  in  his  nature ; 
but  when  he  saw  this  beautiful  woman  with  a  touch 
of  the  Indian  in  her  contour,  his  pale  face  flushed, 
and  he  showed  his  set  teeth  under  his  slight  mus¬ 
tache.  He  watched  her  until  she  entered  a  shop, 
on  the  signboard  of  which  was  written — written  since 
he  had  left  a  few  months  ago — Lucy  Rives,  Tobac- 
conist. 

Shon  had  then  entered  the  Saints’  Repose ;  and 
we  know  the  rest.  A  couple  of  hours  after  this  nerv¬ 
ous  episode,  Pierre  might  have  been  seen  standing 


246 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


in  the  shadow  of  the  pines  not  far  from  the  house 
at  Ward’s  Mistake,  where,  he  had  been  told,  Lucy 
Rives  lived  with  an  old  Indian  woman.  He  stood, 
scarcely  moving,  and  smoking  cigarettes,  until  the 
door  opened.  Shon  came  out  and  walked  down 
the  hillside  to  the  town.  Then  Pierre  went  to  the 
door,  and  without  knocking,  opened  it,  and  entered. 
A  woman  started  up  from  a  seat  where  she  was 
sewing,  and  turned  towards  him.  As  she  did  so, 
the  work,  Shon’s  coat,  dropped  from  her  hands,  her 
face  paled,  and  her  eyes  grew  big  with  fear.  She 
leaned  against  a  chair  for  support — this  man’s  preS' 
ence  had  weakened  her  so.  She  stood  silent,  save 
for  a  slight  moan  that  broke  from  her  lips,  as  the 
Frenchman  lighted  a  cigarette  coolly,  and  then  said 
to  an  old  Indian  v/oman  who  sat  upon  the  floor 
braiding  a  basket :  “  Get  up,  Ikni,  and  go  away.” 

Ikni  rose,  came  over,  and  peered  into  the  face  of 
the  half-breed.  Then  she  muttered  :  “  I  know  you — 
I  know  you.  The  dead  has  come  back  again.”  She 
caught  his  arm  with  her  bony  fingers  as  if  to  satisfy 
herself  that  he  was  flesh  and  blood,  and  shaking  her 
head  dolefully,  went  from  the  room.  When  the  door 
closed  behind  her  there  was  silence,  broken  only  by 
an  exclamation  from  the  man. 

The  other  drew  her  hand  across  her  eyes,  and 
dropped  it  with  a  motion  of  despair.  Then  Pierre 
said,  sharply  :  “  Bie?i  ?  ” 

“  Fran9ois,”  she  replied,  “  you  are  alive,” 

“  Yes,  I  am  alive,  Lucy  Rives.” 

She  shuddered,  then  grew  still  again  and  whis¬ 
pered  : 

“  Why  did  you  let  it  be  thought  that  you  were 
drowned  ?  Why  ?  Oh,  why  ?  ”  she  moaned. 


IN  FIFI  VALLEY. 


247 

He  raised  his  eyebrows  slightly,  and  said,  between 
the  puffs  of  smoke  : 

“  Ah,  yes,  my  Lucy,  why?  It  was  so  long  ago. 
Let  me  see  :  so — so — ten  years.  Ten  years  is  a 
long  time  to  remember,  eh  ?  ” 

He  came  towards  her.  She  drew  back;  but  her 
hand  remained  on  the  chair.  He  touched  the  plain 
gold  ring  on  her  finger,  and  said  : 

“You  still  wear  it.  To  think  of  that — so  loyal 
for  a  woman  !  How  she  remembers, — holy  Mother  ! 
.  .  .  But  shall  I  not  kiss  you,  yes,  just  once  after  eight 
years — my  wife  ?  ” 

She  breathed  hard  and  drew  back  against  the  wall, 
dazed  and  frightened,  and  said  ; 

“  No,  no,  do  not  come  near  me  ;  do  not  speak  to 
me — ah,  please,  stand  back,  for  a  moment,  please  !  ” 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly,  and  continued, 
with  mock  tenderness  : 

“  To  think  that  things  come  round  so  !  And  here 
you  have  a  home.  But  that  is  good.  I  am  tired  of 
much  travel  and  life  all  alone.  The  prodigal  goes 
not  to  the  home,  the  home  comes  to  the  prodigal.” 
He  stretched  up  his  arms  as  if  with  a  feeling  of 
content. 

“  Do  you — do  you  not  know,”  she  said,  “  that — • 
that - ” 

He  interrupted  her : 

“  Do  I  not  know,  Lucy,  that  this  is  your  home  ? 
Yes.  But  is  it  not  all  the  same  ?  I  gave  you  a  home 
ten  years  ago — to  think,  ten  years  ago  !  We  quar¬ 
reled  one  night,  and  I  left  you.  Next  morning  my 
boat  was  found  below  the  White  Cascade — yes,  but 
that  was  so  stale  a  trick  !  It  was  not  worthy  of 
Fran9ois  Rives.  He  would  do  it  so  much  better 


248 


FI  ERR  E  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


now ;  but  he  was  young,  then ;  just  a  boy,  and 
foolish.  Well,  sit  down,  Lucy,  it  is  a  long  story,  and 
you  have  much  to  tell,  how  much — who  knows  ?  ” 

She  came  slowly  forward  and  said  with  a  painful 
effort : 

“You  did  a  great  wrong,  Fran9ois.  You  have 
killed  me.” 

“  Killed  you,  Lucy,  my  wife  !  Pardon  /  Never  in 
those  days  did  you  look  so  charming  as  now — never ! 
But  the  great  surprise  of  seeing  your  husband,  it 
has  made  you  shy,  quite  shy.  There  will  be  much 
time  now  for  you  to  change  all  that.  It  is  quite 
pleasant  to  think  on,  Lucy.  ...  You  remember  the 
song  we  used  to  sing  on  the  Chaudiere  at  St. 
Antoine  ?  See,  I  have  not  forgotten  it — 

“  ‘  Ros  amants  sont  en  gtierre, 

Vole,  man  cceiir,  vole.’’  ” 

He  hummed  the  lines  over  and  over,  watching 
through  his  half-shut  eyes  the  torture  he  was  in¬ 
flicting. 

“  Oh,  Mother  of  God,”  she  whispered,  “  have 
mercy  !  Can  you  not  see,  do  you  not  know  ?  I  am 
not  as  you  left  me.” 

“  Yes,  my  wife,  you  are  just  the  same  ;  not  an 
hour  older.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  come  to  me. 
But  how  they  will  envy  Pretty  Pierre  !  ” 

“Envy — Pretty  Pierre,”  she  repeated,  in  distress; 
“  are  you — Pretty — Pierre  ?  Ah,  I  might  have 
known,  I  might  have  known  !  ” 

“  Yes,  and  so  !  Is  not  Pretty  Pierre  as  good  a 
name  as  Francois  Rives?  Is  it  not  as  good  as 
Shon  McGann  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  I  see  it  all,  I  see  it  all  now,”  she  mourn¬ 
fully  said.  “  It  was  with  you  he  quarrelled,  and  about 


IN  Pin  VALLEY. 


249 

me.  He  would  not  tell  me  what  it  was.  You  know^ 
then,  that  I  am — that  I  am  married— to  him !  ” 

“  Quite.  I  know  all  that ;  but  it  is  no  marriage.” 
He  rose  to  his  feet  slowly,  dropping  the  cigarette 
from  his  lips  as  he  did  so.  “Yes,”  he  continued, 
“  and  I  know  that  you  prefer  Shon  McGann  to  Pretty 
Pierre.” 

She  spread  out  her  hands  appealingly. 

“  But  you  are  my  wife,  not  his.  Listen  :  do  you 
know  what  I  shall  do  "i  I  will  tell  you  in  two  hours. 
It  is  now  eight  o’clock.  At  ten  o’clock  Shon  Mc¬ 
Gann  will  meet  me  at  the  Saints’  Repose.  Then 
you  shall  know.  .  .  .  Ah,  it  is  a  pity !  Shon  was 
my  good  friend,  but  this  spoils  all  that.  Wine — it 
has  danger  ;  cards — there  is  peril  in  that  sport ; 
women — they  make  trouble  most  of  all.” 

“O  God,”  she  piteously  said,  “what  did  I  do? 
There  was  no  sin  in  me.  I  was  your  faithful  wife, 
though  you  were  cruel  to  me.  You  left  me,  cheated 
me,  brought  this  upon  me.  It  is  you  that  has  done 
this  wickedness,  not  I.”  She  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands,  falling  on  her  knees  beside  the  chair. 

He  bent  above  her  :  “You  loved  the  young  avocat 
better,  eight  years  ago.” 

She  sprang  to  her  feet.  “  Ah,  now  I  understand,” 
she  said ;  “  that  was  why  you  quarreled  with  me ; 
why  you  deserted  me — you  were  not  man  enough  to 
say  what  made  you  so  much  the — so  wicked  and 
hard,  so - ” 

“  Be  thankful,  Lucy,  that  I  did  not  kill  you  then,” 
he  interjected. 

“  But  it  is  a  lie,”  she  cried ;  “  a  lie  !  ” 

She  went  to  the  door  and  called  the  Indian 


woman. 


250 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  Ikni,”  she  said.  “  He  dares  to  say  evil  of  Andre 
and  me.  Think — of  Andre  !  ” 

Ikni  came  to  him,  put  her  wrinkled  face  close  to 
his,  and  said  :  “  She  was  yours,  only  yours  ;  but 

the  spirits  gave  you  a  devil.  Andre,  oh,  oh,  Andre  ! 
The  father  of  Andre  was  her  father — ah,  that  makes 
your  sulky  eyes  to  open.  Ikni  knows  how  to  speak. 
Ikni  nursed  them  both.  If  you  had  waited  you 
should  have  known.  But  you  ran  away  like  a  wolf 
from  a  coal  of  fire  ;  you  shammed  death  like  a  fox ; 
you  come  back  like  the  snake  to  crawl  into  the  house 
and  strike  with  poison  tooth,  when  you  should  be 
with  the  worms  in  the  ground.  But  Ikni  knows— 
you  shall  be  struck  with  poison  too,  the  spirit  of  the 
Red  Knife  waits  for  you.  Andre  was  her  brother.” 

He  pushed  her  aside  savagely  :  “  Be  still !  ”  he 

said  ;  “  get  out — quick.  Sacre — quick  !  ” 

When  they  were  alone  again  he  continued  with 
no  anger  in  his  tone :  “  So,  Andre  the  avocat  and 

you — that,  eh  ?  Well,  you  see  how  much  trouble 
has  come  ;  and  now  this  other — a  secret  too  !  When 
were  you  married  to  Shon  McGann  ?  ” 

“  Last  night,”  she  bitterly  replied  ;  “  a  priest  came 
over  from  the  Indian  village.” 

“  Last  night,”  he  musingly  repeated — “  last  night 
I  lost  one  thousand  dollars  at  the  Little  Goshen  field. 
I  did  not  play  well  last  night ;  I  was  nervous.  In 
ten  years  I  had  not  lost  so  much  at  one  game  as  I 
did  last  night.  It  was  a  punishment  for  playing  too 
honest,  or  something ;  eh,  what  do  you  think,  Lucy 
— or  something,  eh?  ” 

She  said  nothing,  but  rocked  her  body  to  and  fro. 
“  Why  did  you  not  make  known  the  marriage  with 
Shon  ?  ” 


IN  PrPI  VALLEY. 


251 


“  He  was  to  have  told  it  to-night,”  she  said. 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  then  a  thought 
flashed  into  his  eyes,  and  he  rejoined  with  a  jarring 
laugh  :  “  Well,  I  will  play  a  game  to-night,  Lucy 
Rives  ;  such  a  game  that  Pretty  Pierre  will  never  be 
forgotten  in  the  Pipi  Valley;  a  beautiful  game,  just 
for  two.  And  the  other  who  will  play — the  wife  of 
Francois  Rives  shall  see  if  she  will  wait ;  but  she 
must  be  patient,  more  patient  than  her  husband  was 
ten  years  ago.” 

“  What  will  you  do  ?  tell  me,  what  will  you  do  }  ” 

‘‘  I  will  play  a  game  of  cards — just  one  magnificent 
game  ;  and  the  cards  shall  settle  it.  All  shall  be 
quite  fair,  as  when  you  and  I  played  in  the  little 
house  by  the  Chaudiere — at  first, — before  I  was  a 
devil.” 

Was  this  peculiar  softness  to  his  last  tones  as¬ 
sumed  or  real  ?  She  looked  at  him  inquiringly  ;  but 
he  moved  away  to  the  window,  and  stood  gazing 
down  the  hillside  towards  the  town  below.  His  eyes 
smarted. 

“  I  will  die,”  she  said  to  herself  in  whispers — “  I 
will  die.”  A  minute  passed,  and  then  Pierre  turned 
and  said  to  her :  “  Lucy,  he  is  coming  up  the  hill. 
Listen.  If  you  tell  him  that  I  have  seen  you,  I  will 
shoot  him  on  sight,  dead.  You  would  save  him,  for 
a  little,  for  an  hour  or  two — or  more  ?  Well,  do  as 
I  say  ;  for  these  things  must  be  according  to  the  rules 
of  the  game,  and  I  myself  will  tell  him  all  at  the 
Saints’  Repose.  He  gave  me  the  lie  there,  I  will  tell 
him  the  truth  before  them  all.  Will  you  do  as  I 
say  ?  ” 

She  hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  replied  ;  “  T 
shall  not  tell  him.” 


252 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“There  is  only  one  way,  then,”  he  continued; 
“  you  must  go  at  once  from  here  into  the  woods  be¬ 
hind  there,  and  not  see  him  at  all.  Then  at  ten 
o’clock  you  will  come  to  the  Saints’  Repose,  if  you 
choose,  to  know  how  the  game  has  ended.” 

She  was  trembling,  moaning,  no  longer.  A  set 
look  had  come  into  her  face  ;  her  eyes  were  steady 
and  hard.  She  quietly  replied:  “Yes,  I  shall  be 
there.” 

He  came  to  her,  took  her  hand,  and  drew  from  her 
finger  the  wedding-ring  which  last  night  Shon  Mc- 
Gann  had  placed  there.  She  submitted  passively. 
Then  with  an  upward  wave  of  his  fingers,  he  spoke 
in  a  mocking  lightness,  but  without  any  of  the  malice 
which  had  first  appeared  in  his  tones,  words  from 
an  old  French  song  : 

“  I  say  no  more,  my  lady — 

Mirontoii,  Mironton,  Miro7itaine  ! 

I  say  no  more,  my  lady. 

As  nought  more  can  be  said.” 

He  opened  the  door,  motioned  to  the  Indian  wo¬ 
man,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  the  broken-hearted 
Lucy  Rives  and  her  companion  were  hidden  in  the 
pines ;  and  Pretty  Pierre  also  disappeared  into  the 
shadow  of  the  woods  as  Shon  McGann  appeared  on 
the  crest  of  the  hill. 

The  Irishman  walked  slowly  to  the  door,  and 
pausing,  said  to  himself  :  “  I  couldn’t  run  the  big 
risk,  me  darlin’,  without  seein’  you  again,  God  help 
me  !  There’s  danger  ahead  which  little  I’d  care  for 
if  it  wasn’t  for  you.” 

Then  he  stepped  inside  the  house — the  place  was 
silent ;  he  called,  but  no  one  answered  ;  he  threw 
open  the  doors  of  the  rooms,  but  they  were  empty  ; 
he  went  outside  and  called  again,  but  no  reply  came, 


IN  PI  PI  VALLEY. 


253 


except  the  flutter  of  a  night-hawk’s  wings  and  the 
cry  of  a  whip-poor-will.  He  went  back  into  the 
house  and  sat  down  with  his  head  between  his  hands. 
So,  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  raised  his  head,  and 
said  with  a  sad  smile:  “Faith,  Shon,  me  boy,  this 
takes  the  life  out  of  you ! — the  empty  house  where 
she  ought  to  be,  and  the  smile  of  her  so  swate,  and 
the  hand  of  her  that  falls  on  y’r  shoulder  like  a  dove 
on  the  blessed  altar— gone,  and  lavin’  a  chill  on  y’r 
heart  like  a  touch  of  the  dead.  Sure,  nivir  a  wan 
of  me  saw  any  that  could  stand  wid  her  W  goodness, 
barrin’  the  angel  that  kissed  me  good-bye  with  one 
foot  in  the  stirrup  an’  the  troopers  behind  me,  now 
twelve  years  gone,  in  ould  Donegal,  and  that  I’ll 
niver  see  again,  she  lyin’  where  the  hate  of  the  world 
will  vex  the  heart  of  her  no  more,  and  the  masses 
gone  up  for  her  soul.  Twice,  twice  in  y’r  life,  Shon 
McGann,  has  the  cup  of  God’s  joy  been  at  y’r  lips, 
and  is  it  both  times  that  it’s  to  spill  ? — Pretty  Pierre 
shoots  straight  and  sudden,  and  maybe  it’s  aisy  to 
see  the  end  of  it ;  but  as  the  just  God  is  above  us. 
I’ll  give  him  the  lie  in  his  throat  betimes  for  the 
word  he  said  agin  me  darlin’.  What’s  the  avil  thing 
that  he  has  to  say  ?  What’s  the  divil’s  proof  he 
would  bring  ?  And  where  is  she  now.^ — where  are 
you,  Lucy  ?  I  know  the  proof  I’ve  got  in  me  heart 
that  the  wreck  of  the  world  couldn’t  shake,  while 
that  light,  born  of  Heaven,  swims  up  to  your  eyes 
whin  you  look  at  me  !  ” 

He  rose  to  his  feet  again  and  walked  to  and  fro  ; 
he  went  once  more  to  the  doors ;  he  looked  here  and 
there  through  the  growing  dusk,  but  to  no  purpose. 
She  had  said  that  she  would  not  go  to  her  shop  this 
night ;  but  if  not,  then  where  could  she  have  gone  ? 


254 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


• — and  Ikni,  too  ?  He  felt  there  was  more  awry  in 
his  life  than  he  cared  to  put  into  thought  or  speech. 
He  picked  up  the  sewing  she  had  dropped  and 
looked  at  it  as  one  would  regard  a  relic  of  the  dead  ; 
he  lifted  her  handkerchief,  kissed  it,  and  put  it  in 
his  breast.  He  took  a  revolver  from  his  pocket  and 
examined  it  closely,  looked  round  the  room  as  if  to 
fasten  it  in  his  memory,  and  then  passed  out,  closing 
the  door  behind  him.  He  walked  down  the  hillside 
and  went  to  her  shop  in  the  one  street  of  the  town, 
but  she  was  not  there,  nor  had  the  lad  in  charge 
seen  her. 

Meanwhile,  Pretty  Pierre  had  made  his  way  to  the 
Saints’  Repose,  and  was  sitting  among  the  miners 
indolently  smoking.  In  vain  he  was  asked  to  play 
cards.  His  one  reply  was,  “  pardon,  no  !  I  play 
one  game  only  to-night,  the  biggest  game  ever  played 
in  Pipi  Valley,”  In  vain,  also,  was  he  asked  to 
drink.  He  refused  the  hospitality,  defying  the 
danger  that  such  lack  of  good-fellowship  might  bring 
forth.  He  hummed  in  patches  to  himself  the  words 
of  a  song  that  the  brutes  were  wont  to  sing  when 
they  hunted  the  buffalo  : 

“  Voila  !  it  is  the  sport  to  tide  ; 

Ah,  ah  the  brave  hunter ! 

To  thrust  the  arrow  in  his  hide, 

To  send  the  bullet  through  his  side — 

Id,  the  bu&cilo,  joH 
Ah,  ah  the  buffalo  !  ” 

He  nodded  here  and  there  as  men  entered ;  but  he 
did  not  stir  from  his  seat.  He  smoked  incessantly, 
and  his  eyes  faced  the  door  of  the  bar-room  that 
entered  upon  the  street.  There  was  no  doubt  in  the 
minds  of  any  present  that  the  promised  excitement 
would  occur.  Shon  McGann  was  as  fearless  as  he 
was  gay.  And  Pipi  Valley  remembered  the  day  in 
which  he  had  twice  risked  his  life  to  save  two  women 


IN  PI  PI  VALLEY. 


255 


from  a  burning  building — Lady  Jane  and  another. 
And  Lady  Jane  this  evening  was  agitated,  and  once 
or  twice  furtively  looked  at  something  under  the  bar- 
counter  ;  in  fact,  a  close  observer  would  have  noticed 
anger  or  anxiety  in  the  eyes  of  the  daughter  of 
Dick  Waldron,  the  keeper  of  the  Saints’  Repose  ; 
Pierre  would  certainly  have  seen  it  had  he  been 
looking  that  way.  An  unusual  influence  was  working 
upon  the  frequenters  of  the  busy  tavern.  Planned, 
premeditated  excitement  was  out  of  their  line.  Un¬ 
expectedness  was  the  salt  of  their  existence.  This 
thing  had  an  air  of  system  not  in  accord  with  the 
suddenness  of  the  Pipi  mind.  The  half-breed  was 
the  only  one  entirely  at  his  ease  ;  he  was  languid 
and  nonchalant ;  the  long  lashes  of  his  half-shut 
eyelids  gave  his  face  a  pensive  look.  At  last  King 
Kinkley  walked  over  to  him,  and  said  ;  “  There’s  an 
almighty  mysteriousness  about  this  event  which 
isn’t  joyful.  Pretty  Pierre.  We  want  to  see  the  muss 
cleared  up,  of  course  ;  we  want  Shon  McGann  to 
act  like  a  high-toned  citizen,  and  there’s  a  general 
prejudice  in  favor  of  things  bein’  on  the  flat  of  your 
palm,  as  it  were.  Now  this  thing  hangs  fire,  and 
there’s  a  lack  of  animation  about  it,  isn’t  there  ?  ” 

To  this.  Pretty  Pierre  replied  :  “  What  can  I  do  ? 
This  is  not  like  other  things  ;  one  had  to  wait ;  great 
things  take  time.  To  shoot  is  easy  ;  but  to  shoot  is 
not  all  as  you  shall  see  if  you  have  a  little  patience, 
Ah,  my  friend,  where  there  is  a  woman,  things  are 
different.  I  throw  a  glass  in  your  face,  we  shoot, 
some  one  dies,  and  there  it  is  quite  plain  of  reason  ; 
you  play  a  card  which  was  dealt  just  now,  I  call  you 
— something,  and  the  swiftest  finger  does  the  trick ; 
but  in  such  as  this,  one  must  wait  for  the  sport.” 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Shon  McGann  entered, 


256  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

looked  round,  nodded  to  all,  and  then  came  forward 
to  the  table  where  Pretty  Pierre  sat.  As  the  other 
took  out  his  watch,  Shon  said  firmly  but  quietly  : 
“  Pierre,  I  gave  you  the  lie  to-day  concerning  me 
wife,  and  I’m  here,  as  I  said  I’d  be,  toshtand  by  the 
word  I  passed  then.” 

Pierre  waved  his  fingers  lightjy  towards  the  other, 
and  slowly  rose.  Then  he  said  in  sharp  tones  : 
“  Yes,  Shon  McGann,  you  gave  me  the  lie.  There 
is  but  one  thing  for  that  in  Pipi  Valley.  You  choked 
me  ;  I  would  not  take  that  from  a  saint  of  heaven  ; 
but  there  was  another  thing  to  do  first.  Well,  I 
have  done  it ;  I  said  I  would  bring  proofs — I  have 
them.”  He  paused,  and  now  there  might  have  been 
seen  a  shining  moisture  on  his  forehead,  and  his 
words  came  menacingly  from  between  his  teeth, 
while  the  room  became  breathlessly  still,  save  that 
in  the  silence  a  sleeping  dog  sighed  heavily  :  “  Shon 
McGann,”  he  added,  “  you  are  living  with  my  wife.” 

Twenty  men  drew  in  a  sharp  breath  of  excite¬ 
ment,  and  Shon  came  a  step  nearer  the  other,  and 
said  in  a  strange  voice  :  “  I — am — living — with — 
your — wife  ” 

“  As  I  say,  with  my  wife,  Lucy  Rives.  Franqois 
Rives  tvas  my  name  ten  years  ago.  We  quarreled, 
I  left  her,  and  I  never  saw  her  again  until  to-night. 
You  went  to  see  her  two  hours  ago.  You  did  not  find 
her.  Why?  She  was  gone  because  her  husband, 
Pierre,  told  her  to  go.  You  want  a  proof?  You 
shall  have  it.  Here  is  the  wedding-ring  you  gave 
her  last  night.” 

He  handed  it  over,  and  Shon  saw  inside  it  his  own 
name  and  hers. 

“My  God!”  he  said,  “did  she  know?  Tell  me 
she  did  not  know  you  were  alive,  Pierre  ?  ” 


IN  PIPI  VALLE  Y. 


257 


“  No,  she  did  not  know.  I  have  truth  to  speak 
to-night.  I  was  jealous,  mad,  and  foolish,  and  I  left 
her.  My  boat  was  found  upset.  They  believed  I 
was  drowned.  Well,  she  waited  until  yesterday,  and 
then  she  took  you — but  she  was  my  wife  ;  she  is  my 
wife — and  so  you  see  !  ” 

The  Irishman  was  deadly  pale. 

“  It’s  an  avil  heart  y’  had  in  y’  then.  Pretty  Pierre, 
and  it’s  an  avil  day  that  brought  this  thing  to  pass, 
and  there’s  only  wan  way  to  the  end  of  it.” 

“  Yes,  that  is  true.  There  is  only  one  way,”  was 
the  reply ;  “  but  what  shall  that  way  be  ?  Some  one 
must  go  :  there  must  be  no  mistake.  I  have  to  pro¬ 
pose.  Here  on  this  table  we  lay  a  revolver.  We 
will  give  up  these  which  we  have  in  our  pockets. 
Then  we  will  play  a  game  of  euchre,  and  the  winner 
of  the  game  shall  have  the  revolver.  We  will  play 
for  a  life.  That  is  fair,  eh — that  is  fair  "i  ”  he  said 
to  those  around. 

King  Kinkley,  speaking  for  the  rest,  replied : 

“  That’s  about  fair.  It  gives  both  a  chance,  and 
leaves  only  two  when  it’s  over.  While  the  woman 
lives,  one  of  you  is  naturally  in  the  way.  Pierre  left 
her  in  a  way  that  isn’t  handsome  ;  but  a  wife’s  a 
wife,  and  though  Shon  was  all  in  the  glum  about  the 
thing,  and  though  the  woman  isn’t  to  be  blamed 
either,  there’s  one  too  many  of  you,  and  there’s  got  to 
be  a  vacation  for  somebody.  Isn’t  that  so?  ” 

The  rest  nodded  assent.  They  had  been  so  en¬ 
gaged  that  they  did  not  see  a  woman  enter  the  bar 
from  behind,  and  crouch  down  beside  Lady  Jane, 
a  woman  whom  the  latter  touched  affectionately  on 
the  shoulder  and  whispered  to  once  or  twice,  while 
she  watched  the  preparations  for  the  game. 

17 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


258 

The  two  men  sat  down,  Shon  facing  the  bar  and 
Pierre  with  his  back  to  it. 

The  game  began,  neither  man  showing  a  sign  of 
nervousness,  though  Shon  was  very  pale.  The  game 
was  to  finish  for  ten  points.  Men  crowded  about 
the  tables  silent  but  keenly  excited  ;  cigars  were 
chewed  instead  of  srnoked,  and  liquor  was  left  un¬ 
drunk.  At  the  first  deal  Pierre  made  a  march,  se¬ 
curing  two.  At  the  next  Shon  made  a  point,  and  at 
the  next  also  a  march.  The  half-breed  was  playing 
a  straight  game.  He  could  have  stacked  the  cards, 
but  he  did  not  do  so  ;  deft  as  he  was  he  might  have 
cheated  even  the  vigilant  eyes  about  him,  but  it  was 
not  so  ;  he  played  as  squarely  as  a  novice.  At  the 
third,  at  the  fourth  deal,  he  made  a  march  ;  at  the 
fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  deals,  Shon  made  a  march, 
a  point,  and  a  march.  Both  now  had  eight  points. 
At  the  next  deal  both  got  a  point,  and  both  stood  at 
nine  ! 

Now  came  the  crucial  play. 

During  the  progress  of  the  game  nothing  had  been 
heard  save  the  sound  of  a  knuckle  on  the  table,  the 
flip-flip  of  the  pasteboard,  or  the  rasp  of  a  heel  on  the 
floor.  There  was  a  set  smile  on  Shon’s  face  a  for¬ 
gotten  smile,  for  the  rest  of  the  face  was  stern  and 
tragic.  Pierre  smoked  cigarettes,  pausing,  while  his 
opponent  was  shuffling  and  dealing,  to  light  them. 

Behind  the  bar  as  the  game  proceeded  the  woman 
who  knelt  beside  Lady  Jane  listened  to  every  sound. 
Her  eyes  grew  more  agonized  as  the  numbers,  whis¬ 
pered  to  her  by  her  companion,  climbed  to  the  fatal 
ten. 

The  last  deal  was  Shon’s  ;  there  was  that  much 
to  his  advantage.  As  he  slowly  dealt,  the  woman 


IN  PI  FI  VALLEY. 


259 


Lucy  Rives — rose  to  her  feet  behind  Lady  Jane. 
So  absorbed  were  all  that  none  saw  her.  Her  eyes 
passed  from  Pierre  to  Shon,  and  stayed. 

When  the  cards  were  dealt,  with  but  one  point  for 
either  to  gain,  and  so  win  and  save  his  life,  there 
was  a  slight  pause  before  the  two  took  them  up. 
They  did  not  look  at  one  another  ;  but  each  glanced 
at  the  revolver,  then  at  the  men  nearest  them,  and 
lastly,  for  an  instant,  at  the  cards  themselves,  with 
their  pasteboard  faces  of  life  and  death  turned  down¬ 
ward.  As  the  players  picked  them  up  at  last  and 
spread  them  out  fan-like.  Lady  Jane  slipped  some¬ 
thing  into  the  hand  of  Lucy  Rives. 

Those  who  stood  behind  Shon  McGann  stared  with 
anxious  astonishment  at  his  hand ;  it  contained  only 
nine  and  ten  spots.  It  was  easy  to  see  the  direction 
of  the  sympathy  of  Pipi  Valley.  The  Irishman’s 
face  turned  a  slight  shade  paler,  but  he  did  not  trem¬ 
ble  or  appear  disturbed. 

Pierre  played  his  biggest  card  and  took  the  point. 
He  coolly  counted  one,  and  said  ;  “  Game.  I  win.” 

The  crowd  drew  back.  Both  rose  to  their  feet. 
In  the  painful  silence  the  half-breed’s  hand  was 
gently  laid  on  the  revolver.  He  lifted  it,  and  paused 
slightly,  his  eyes  fixed  to  the  steady  look  in  those  of 
Shon  McGann.  He  raised  the  revolver  again,  till 
it  was  level  with  Shon’s  forehead,  till  it  was  even 
with  his  hair  !  Then  there  was  a  shot,  and  some  one 
fell,  not  Shon,  but  Pierre,  saying,  as  they  caught 
him  :  “  Mo7i  Dieu  !  Mon  Dieu  I  From  behind  !  ” 

Instantly  there  was  another  shot,  and  some  one 
crashed  against  the  bottles  in  the  bar.  The  other 
factor  in  the  game,  the  wife,  had  shot  at  Pierre,  and 
then  sent  a  bullet  through  her  own  lungs. 


26o  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

Shon  Stood  for  a  moment  as  if  he  was  turned  to 
stone,  and  then  his  head  dropped  in  his  arras  upon 
the  table.  He  had  seen  both  shots  fired,  but  could 
not  speak  in  time. 

Pierre  was  severely  but  not  dangerously  wounded 
in  the  neck. 

But  the  woman — ?  They  brought  her  out  from 
behind  the  counter.  She  still  breathed  ;  but  on  her 
eyes  was  the  film  of  coming  death.  She  turned  to 
where  Shon  sat.  Her  lips  framed  his  name,  but  no 
voice  came  forth.  Some  one  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder.  He  looked  up  and  caught  her  last  glance. 
He  came  and  stooped  beside  her ;  but  she  had  died 
with  that  one  glance  from  him,  bringing  a  faint 
smile  to  her  lips.  And  the  smile  stayed  when  the 
life  of  her  had  fled— fled  though  the  cloud  over  her 
eyes,  from  the  tide  beat  of  her  pulse.  It  swept  out 
from  the  smoke  and  reeking  air  into  the  open  world, 
and  beyond,  into  those  untried  paths  where  all  must 
walk  alone,  and  in  what  bitterness,  known  only  to 
the  Master  of  the  World  who  sees  these  piteous 
things,  and  orders  in  what  fashion  distorted  lives 
shall  be  made  straight  and  wholesome  in  the  Places 
of  Re-adjustment. 

Shon  stood  silent  above  the  dead  body. 

One  by  one  the  miners  went  out  quietly.  Pres¬ 
ently  Pierre  nodded  towards  the  door,  and  King 
Kinkley  and  another  lifted  him  and  carried  him 
towards  it.  Before  they  passed  into  the  street  he 
made  them  turn  him  so  that  he  could  see  Shon.  He 
waved  his  hand  towards  her  that  had  been  his  wife, 
and  said  :  “  She  should  have  shot  but  once  and 
straight,  Shon  McGann,  and  then  ! — Eh,  well !  ” 

The  door  closed,  and  Shon  McGann  was  left  alone 
with  the  dead. 


The  Cipher. 


Hilton  was  staying  his  horse  by  a  spring  at 
Guidon  Hill  when  he  first  saw  her.  She  was  gather¬ 
ing  may-apples ;  her  apron  was  full  of  them.  He 
noticed  that  she  did  not  stir  until  he  rode  almost 
upon  her.  Then  she  started,  first  without  looking 
round,  as  does  an  animal,  dropping  her  head  slightly 
to  one  side,  though  not  exactly  appearing  to  listen. 
Suddenly  she  wheeled  on  him,  and  her  big  eyes  cap¬ 
tured  him.  The  look  bewildered  him.  She  was  a 
creature  of  singular  fascination ;  her  face  was  ex¬ 
pressive  ;  her  eyes  had  wonderful  light.  She  looked 
happy,  yet  grave  withal  ;  it  was  the  gravity  of  an 
uncommon  earnestness.  She  gazed  through  every¬ 
thing,  and  beyond.  She  was  young — eighteen  or 
so. 

Hilton  raised  his  hat,  and  courteously  called  a 
good-morning  at  her.  She  did  not  reply  by  any 
word,  but  nodded  quaintly,  and  blinked  seriously 
and  yet  blithely  on  him.  He  was  preparing  to  dis¬ 
mount.  As  he  did  so  he  paused,  astonished  that  she 
did  not  speak  at  all.  Her  face  did  not  have  a  fam¬ 
iliar  language  ;  its  vocabulary  was  its  own.  He  slid 
from  his  horse,  and,  throwing  his  arm  over  its  neck  as 
it  stooped  to  the  spring,  looked  at  her  more  intently, 
but  respectfully  too.  She  did  not  yet  stir,  but  there 
came  into  her  face  a  slight  inflection  of  confusion  or 
perplexity.  Again  he  raised  his  hat  to  her,  and, 
smiling,  wished  her  a  good-morning.  Even  as  he  did 


262 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


SO  a  thought  sprung  in  him.  Understanding  gave 
place  to  wonder  ;  he  interpreted  the  unusual  look  in 
her  face. 

Instantly  he  made  a  sign  to  her.  To  that  her  face 
responded  with  a  wonderful  speech — of  relief  and 
recognition.  The  corners  of  her  apron  dropped 
from  her  fingers,  and  the  yellow  may-apples  fell 
about  her  feet.  She  did  not  notice  this.  She  an¬ 
swered  his  sign  with  another,  rapid,  graceful,  and 
meaning.  He  left  his  horse  and  advanced  to  her, 
holding  out  his  hand  simply — for  he  was  a  simple 
and  honest  man.  Her  response  to  this  was  spon¬ 
taneous,  The  warmth  of  her  fingers  invaded  him. 
Her  eyes  were  full  of  questioning.  He  gave  a  hearty 
sign  of  admiration.  She  flushed  with  pleasure,  but 
made  a  naive,  protesting  gesture. 

She  was  deaf  and  dumb. 

Hilton  had  once  a  sister  who  was  a  mute.  He 
knew  that  amazing  primal  gesture-language  of  the 
silent  race,  whom  God  has  sent  like  one-winged 
birds  into  the  world.  He  had  watched  in  his  sister 
just  such  looks  of  absolute  nature  as  flashed  from  this 
girl.  They  were  comrades  on  the  instant  ;  he  rev¬ 
erential,  gentle,  protective  ;  she  sanguine,  candid, 
beautifully  aboriginal  in  the  freshness  of  her  cipher- 
thoughts.  She  saw  the  world  naked,  with  a  naked 
eye.  She  was  utterly  natural.  She  was  the  maker 
of  exquisite,  vital  gesture-speech. 

She  glided  out  from  among  the  may-apples  and 
the  long,  silken  grass,  to  charm  his  horse  with  her 
hand.  As  she  started  to  do  so,  he  hastened  to  pre¬ 
vent  her,  but,  utterly  surprised,  he  saw  the  horse 
whinny  to  her  check,  and  arch  his  neck  under  her 
pink  palm — it  was  very  pink.  Then  the  animal’s 


TFIE  CIPHER. 


263 


chin  sought  her  shoulder  and  stayed  placid.  He 
had  never  done  so  to  any  one  before  save  Hilton. 
Once,  indeed,  he  had  kicked  a  stableman  to  death. 
He  lifted  his  head  and  caught  with  playful  shaking 
lips  at  her  ear.  Hilton  smiled  ;  and  so,  as  we  said, 
their  comradeship  began. 

He  was  a  new  officer  of  the  Hudson’s  Bay  Com^ 
pany  at  Fort  Guidon.  She  was  the  daughter  of  a 
ranchman.  She  had  been  educated  by  Father 
'Corraine,  the  Jesuit  missionary,  Protestant  though 
she  was.  He  had  learned  the  sign-language  while 
assistant-priest  in  a  Parisian  chapel  for  mutes.  He 
taught  her  this  gesture-tongue,  which  she,  taking, 
rendered  divine  ;  and,  with  this,  she  learned  to  read 
and  write. 

Her  name  was  Ida. 

Ida  was  faultless.  Hilton  was  not ;  but  no  man 
is.  To  her,  however,  he  was  the  best  that  man  can 
be.  He  was  unselfish  and  altogether  honest,  and 
that  is  much  for  a  man. 

When  Pierre  came  to  know  of  their  friendship  he 
shook  his  head  doubtfully.  One  day  he  was  sitting 
on  the  hot  side  of  a  pine  near  his  mountain  hut, 
soaking  in  the  sun.  He  saw  them  passing  below 
him,  along  the  edge  of  the  hill  across  the  ravine. 
He  said  to  some  one  behind  him  in  the  shade,  who 
was  looking  also, — “  What  will  be  the  end  of  that, 
eh?” 

And  the  someone  replied  ;  “  Faith,  what  the  Ser¬ 
pent  in  the  Wilderness  couldn’t  cure.” 

“  You  think  he’ll  play  with  her  ?  ” 

“  I  think  he’ll  do  it  without  wishin’  or  willin’, 
maybe.  It’ll  be  a  case  of  a  kiss  and  ride  away.” 

There  was  silence.  Soon  Pierre  pointed  down 


264 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


again.  She  stood  upon  a  green  mound  with  a  cool 
hedge  of  rock  behind  her,  her  feet  on  the  margin 
of  solid  sunlight,  her  forehead  bared.  Her  hair 
sprinkled  round  her  as  she  gently  threw  back  her 
head.  Her  face  was  full  on  Hilton.  She  was  tell¬ 
ing  him  something.  Her  gestures  were  rhythmical, 
and  admirably  balanced.  Because  they  were  con¬ 
tinuous  or  only  regularly  broken,  it  was  clear  she 
was  telling  him  a  story.  Hilton  gravely,  delightedly, 
nodded  response  now  and  then,  or  raised  his  eye¬ 
brows  in  fascinated  surprise.  Pierre,  watching,  was 
only  aware  of  vague  impressions — not  any  distinct 
outline  of  the  tale.  At  last  he  guessed  it  as  a  perfect 
pastoral — birds,  reaping,  deer,  winds,  sundials,  cattle, 
shepherds,  hunting.  To  Hilton  it  was  a  new  rev¬ 
elation.  She  was  telling  him  things  she  had  thought, 
she  was  recalling  her  life. 

Towards  the  last,  she  said  in  gesture  : — “  You  can 
forget  the  winter,  but  not  the  spring.  You  like  to 
remember  the  spring.  It  is  the  beginning.  When 
the  daisy  first  peeps,  when  the  tall  young  deer  first 
stands  upon  its  feet,  when  the  first  egg  is  seen  in 
the  oriole’s  nest,  when  the  sap  first  sweats  from  the 
tree,  when  you  first  look  into  the  eye  of  your  friend 
— these  you  want  to  remember.  ...” 

She  paused  upon  this  gesture — a  light  touch  upon 
the  forehead,  then  the  hands  stretched  out,  palms 
upward,  with  coaxing  fingers.  She  seemed  lost  in 
it.  Her  eyes  rippled,  her  lips  pressed  slightly,  a 
delicate  wine  crept  through  her  cheek,  and  tender¬ 
ness  wimpled  all.  Her  soft  breast  rose  modestly  to 
the  cool  texture  of  her  dress,  Hilton  felt  his  blood 
bound  joyfully ;  he  had  the  wish  of  instant  possession. 
But  yet  he  could  not  stir,  she  held  him  so  ;  for  a 


THE  CIPHER. 


265 

change  immediately  passed  upon  her.  She  glided 
slowly  from  that  almost  statue-like  repose  into  an¬ 
other  gesture.  Her  eyes  drew  up  from  his,  and 
looked  away  to  plumbless  distance,  all  glowing  and 
child-like,  and  the  new  ciphers  slowly  said  : 

“  But  the  spring  dies  away.  We  can  only  see  a 
thing  born  once.  And  it  may  be  ours,  yet  not  ours. 
I  have  sighted  the  perfect  Sharon-flower,  far  up  on 
Guidon,  yet  it  was  not  mine  ;  it  was  too  distant ;  I 
could  not  reach  it.  I  have  seen  the  silver  bullfinch 
floating  along  the  canon.  I  called  to  it,  and  it  came 
singing ;  and  it  was  mine,  yet  I  could  not  hear  its 
song,  and  I  let  it  go  ;  it  could  not  be  happy  so  with 
me.  ...  I  stand  at  the  gate  of  a  great  city,  and 
see  all,  and  feel  the  great  shuttles  of  sounds,  the  roar 
and  clack  of  wheels,  the  horses’  hoofs  striking  the 
ground,  the  hammer  of  bells  ;  all :  and  yet  it  is  not 
mine  ;  it  is  far  far  away  from  me.  It  is  one  world, 
mine  is  another  ;  and  sometimes  it  is  lonely,  and  the 
best  things  are  not  for  me.  But  I  have  seen  them, 
and  it  is  pleasant  to  remember,  and  nothing  can 
take  from  us  the  hour  when  things  were  born,  when 
we  saw  the  spring — nothing — never !  ” 

Her  manner  of  speech,  as  this  went  on,  became 
exquisite  in  fineness,  slower,  and  more  dream-like, 
until,  with  downward  protesting  motions  of  the  hand, 
she  said  that — “  nothing — never  !  ”  Then  a  great 
sigh  surged  up  her  throat,  her  lips  parted  slightly, 
showing  the  warm  moist  whiteness  of  her  teeth,  her 
hands  falling  lightly,  drew  together  and  folded  in 
front  of  her,  and  she  stood  still. 

Pierre  had  watched  this  scene  intently,  his  chin  in 
his  hands,  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  Presently  he 
drew  himself  up,  ran  a  finger  meditatively  along  his 


266 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


lip,  and  said  to  himself :  “  It  is  perfect.  She  is 
carved  from  the  core  of  nature.  But  this  thing  has 
danger  for  her  .  .  .  well !  .  .  .  ah  !  ” 

A  change  in  the  scene  before  him  caused  this  last 
expression  of  surprise. 

Hilton,  rousing  from  the  enchanting  pantomime, 
took  a  step  towards  her ;  but  she  raised  her  hand 
pleadingly,  restrainingly,  and  he  paused.  With  his 
eyes  he  asked  her  mutely  why.  She  did  not 
answer,  but,  all  at  once  transformed  into  a  thing  of 
abundant  sprightliness,  ran  down  the  hillside,  toss¬ 
ing  up  her  arms  gayly.  Yet  her  face  was  not  all 
brilliance.  Tears  hung  at  her  eyes.  But  Hilton  did 
not  see  these.  He  did  not  run,  but  walked  quickly, 
following  her ;  and  his  face  had  a  determined  look. 
Immediately,  a  man  rose  up  from  behind  a  rock  on 
the  same  side  of  the  ravine,  and  shook  clenched 
fists  after  the  departing  figures  ;  then  stood  gesticu¬ 
lating  angrily  to  himself,  until,  chancing  to  look  up, 
he  sighted  Pierre,  and  straightway  dived  into  the 
underbrush.  Pierre  rose  to  his  feet,  and  said  slowly  : 
“  Hilton,  there  may  be  trouble  for  you  also.  It  is  a 
tangled  world.” 

Towards  evening  Pierre  sauntered  to  the  house  of 
Ida’s  father.  Light  of  footstep,  he  came  upon  the 
girl  suddenly.  They  had  always  been  friends  since 
the  day  when,  at  uncommon  risk,  he  rescued  her  dog 
from  a  freshet  on  the  Wild  Moose  River.  She  was 
sitting  utterly  still,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  He 
struck  his  foot  smartly  on  the  ground.  She  felt  the 
vibration,  and  looked  up.  He  doffed  his  hat,  and 
she  held  out  her  hand.  He  smiled  and  took  it,  and, 
as  it  lay  in  his,  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  musingly. 
She  drew  it  back  slowly.  He  was  then  thinking 


THE  CIPHER. 


267 


that  it  was  the  most  intelligent  hand  he  had  ever 
seen.  .  .  .  He  determined  to  play  a  bold  and  sur¬ 
prising  game.  He  had  learned  from  her  the  alpha¬ 
bet  of  the  fingers — that  is,  how  to  spell  words.  He 
knew  little  gesture-language.  He,  therefore,  spelled 
slowly  :  “  Hawley  is  angry,  because  you  love  Hilton.” 
The  statement  was  so  matter-of-fact,  so  sudden,  that 
the  girl  had  no  chance.  She  flushed  and  then  paled. 
She  shook  her  head  firmly,  however,  and  her  fingers 
slowly  framed  the  reply:  “You  guess  too  much. 
Foolish  things  come  to  the  idle.” 

“  I  saw  you  this  afternoon,”  he  silently  urged. 

Her  fingers  trembled  slightly.  “  There  was 
nothing  to  see.”  She  knew  he  could  not  have  read 
her  gestures.  “  I  was  telling  a  story.” 

“  You  ran  from  him — why  ?  ”  His  questioning 
was  cruel  that  he  might  in  the  end  be  kind. 

“  The  child  runs  from  its  shadow,  the  bird  from 
its  nest,  the  fish  jumps  from  the  water — that  is 
nothing.”  She  had  recovered  somewhat. 

But  he  :  “  The  shadow  follows  the  child,  the  bird 
comes  back  to  its  nest,  the  fish  cannot  live  beyond 
the  water.  But  it  is  sad  when  the  child,  in  running, 
rushes  into  darkness,  and  loses  its  shadow ;  when 
the  nest  falls  from  the  tree  ;  and  the  hawk  catches 
the  happy  fish.  .  .  .  Hawley  saw  you  also.” 

Hawley,  like  Ida,  was  deaf  and  dumb.  He  lived 
over  the  mountains,  but  came  often.  It  had  been 
understood  that,  one  day,  she  should  marry  him. 
It  seemed  fitting.  She  had  said  neither  yes  nor  no. 
And  now? 

A  quick  tremor  of  trouble  trailed  over  her  face, 
then  it  became  very  still.  Her  eyes  were  bent  upon 
the  ground  steadily.  Presently  a  bird  hopped  near. 


2  68  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

its  head  coquetting  at  her.  She  ran  her  hand  gently 
along  the  grass  towards  it.  The  bird  tripped  on  to  it. 
She  lifted  it  to  her  chin,  at  which  it  pecked  tenderly. 
Pierre  watched  her  keenly— admiring,  pitying.  He 
wished  to  serve  her.  At  last,  with  a  kiss  upon  its 
head,  she  gave  it  a  light  toss  into  the  air,  and  it 
soared,  lark-like,  straight  up,  and  hanging  over  her 
head,  sang  the  day  into  the  evening.  Her  eyes  fol¬ 
lowed  it.  She  could  feel  that  it  was  singing.  She 
smiled  and  lifted  a  finger  lightly  towards  it.  Then 
she  spelled  to  Pierre  this:  “It  is  singing  to  me. 
We  imperfect  things  love  each  other.” 

“  And  what  about  loving  Hawley,  then  ?  ”  Pierre 
persisted.  She  did  not  reply,  but  a  strange  look 
came  upon  her,  and  in  the  pause  Hilton  came  from 
the  house  and  stood  beside  them.  At  this,  Pierre 
lighted  a  cigarette,  and  with  a  good-natured  nod  to 
Hilton,  walked  away. 

Hilton  stooped  over  her,  pale  and  eager.  “  Ida,” 
he  gestured,  “  Will  you  answer  me  now  ?  Will  you 
be  my  wife  ?  ”  She  drew  herself  together  with  a 
little  shiver.  “No,”  was  her  steady  reply.  She 
ruled  her  face  into  stillness,  so  that  it  showed 
nothing  of  what  she  felt.  She  came  to  her  feet 
wearil)'’,  and  drawing  down  a  cool  flowering  branch 
of  chestnut,  pressed  it  to  her  cheek. 

“  You  do  not  love  me  ?  ”  he  asked  nervously. 

“  I  am  going  to  marry  Luke  Hawley,”  was  her 
slow  answer.  She  spelled  the  words.  She  used  no 
gesture  to  that.  The  fact  looked  terribly  hard  and 
inflexible  so.  Hilton  was  not  a  vain  man,  and  he 
believed  he  was  not  loved.  His  heart  crowded  to 
his  throat. 

“  Please  go  away,  now,”  she  begged  with  an  anx- 


THE  CIPHER. 


269 


ious  gesture.  While  the  hand  was  extended,  he 
reached  and  brought  it  to  his  lips,  then  quickly 
kissed  her  on  the  forehead  and  walked  away.  She 
stood  trembling,  and  as  the  fingers  of  one  hand  hung 
at  her  side,  they  spelled  mechanically  these  words  : 
“  It  would  spoil  his  life.  I  am  only  a  mute — a 
dummy !  ” 

As  she  stood  so,  she  felt  the  approach  of  some 
one.  She  did  not  turn  instantly,  but  with  the  abor¬ 
iginal  instinct,  listened,  as  it  were,  with  her  body  ; 
but  presently  faced  about — to  Hawley.  He  was  red 
with  anger.  He  had  seen  Hilton  kiss  her.  He 
caught  her  smartly  by  the  arm,  but,  awed  by  the 
great  calmness  of  her  face,  dropped  it,  and  fell  into 
a  fit  of  sullenness.  She  spoke  to  him  ;  he  did  not 
reply.  She  touched  his  arm  :  he  still  was  gloomy. 
All  at  once  the  full  price  of  her  sacrifice  rushed  upon 
her ;  and  overpowered  her.  She  had  no  help  at  her 
critical  hour,  not  even  from  this  man  she  had  in¬ 
tended  to  bless.  There  came  a  swift  revulsion,  all 
passions  stormed  in  her  at  once ;  despair  was  the 
resultant  of  these  forces.  She  swerved  from  him 
immediately,  and  ran  hard  towards  the  high-banked 
river  ! 

Hawley  did  not  follow  her  at  once  :  he  did  not 
guess  her  purpose.  She  had  almost  reached  the 
leaping-place,  when  Pierre  shot  from  the  trees,  and 
seized  her.  The  impulse  of  this  was  so  strong,  that 
they  slipped,  and  quivered  on  the  precipitous  edge  : 
but  Pierre  righted  then,  and  presently  they  were 
safe. 

Pierre  held  her  hard  by  both  wrists  for  a  moment. 
Then,  drawing  her  away,  he  loosed  her,  and  spelled 
these  words  slowly :  “  I  understand.  But  you  are 


270 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


wrong.  Hawley  is  not  the  man.  You  must  come 
with  me.  It  is  foolish  to  die.” 

The  riot  of  her  feelings,  her  momentary  despair, 
were  gone.  It  was  even  pleasant  to  be  mastered  by 
Pierre’s  firmness.  She  was  passive.  Mechanically 
she  went  with  hirn.  Hawley  approached.  She 
looked  at  Pierre  ;  then  she  turned  on  the  other. 
“  Yours  is  not  the  best  love,”  she  signed  to  him  ;  “  it 
does  not  trust ;  it  is  selfish.”  And  she  moved  on. 

But,  an  hour  later,  Hilton  caught  her  to  his  bosom, 
and  kissed  her  full  on  the  lips.  .  .  .  And  his  right 
to  do  so  continues  to  this  day. 


A  Tragedy  of  Nobodies. 

At  Fort  Latrobe  sentiment  was  not  of  the  most 
refined  kind.  Local  customs  were  pronounced  and 
crude  in  outline  ;  language  was  often  highly  colored, 
and  action  was  occasionally  accentuated  by  a  pistol 
shot.  For  the  first  few  months  of  its  life  the  place 
was  honored  by  the  presence  of  neither  wife,  nor 
sister,  nor  mother.  Yet  women  lived  there. 

When  some  men  did  bring  wives  and  children,  it 
was  noticed  that  the  girl  Blanche  was  seldom  seen 
in  the  streets.  And,  however  it  was,  there  grew 
among  the  men  a  faint  respect  for  her.  They  did 
not  talk  of  it  to  each  other,  but  it  existed.  It  was 
known  that  Blanche  resented  even  the  most  casual 
notice  from  those  men  who  had  wives  and  homes. 
She  gave  the  impression  that  she  had  a  remnant  of 
conscience. 

“  Go  home,”  she  said  to  Harry  Delong,  who  asked 
her  to  drink  with  him  on  New  Year’s  Day.  “  Go 
home,  and  thank  God  that  you’ve  got  a  home — and 
wife.” 

After  Jacques,  the  long-time  friend  of  Pretty  Pierre, 
came  to  Fort  Latrobe,  with  his  sulky  eye  and  scru¬ 
pulously  neat  attire,  Blanche  appeared  to  withdraw 
still  more  from  public  gaze,  though  no  one  saw  any 
connection  between  these  events.  The  girl  also  be¬ 
came  fastidious  in  her  dress,  and  lost  all  her  former 
dash  and  smart  aggression  of  manner.  She  shrank 
from  the  women  of  her  class,  for  which,  as  might  be 


272 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


expected,  she  was  duly  reviled.  But  the  foxes  have 
holes,  and  the  birds  of  the  air  have  nests,  nor  has  it 
been  written  that  a  woman  may  not  close  her_  ears, 
and  bury  herself  in  darkness,  and  travel  alone  in  the 
desert  with  her  people — those  ghosts  of  herself, 
whose  name  is  legion,  and  whose  slow  white  fingers 
mock  more  than  the  world  dare  at  its  worst. 

Suddenly,  she  was  found  behind  the  bar  of  Weir’s 
Tavern  at  Cedar  Point,  the  resort  most  frequented 
by  Jacques.  Word  went  about  among  the  men  that 
Blanche  was  taking  a  turn  at  religion,  or,  otherwise, 
reformation.  Soldier  Joe  was  something  sceptical 
on  this  point  from  the  fact  that  she  had  developed 
a  very  uncertain  temper.  This  appeared  especially 
noticeable  in  her  treatment  of  Jacques.  She  made 
him  the  target  for  her  sharpest  sarcasm.  Though 
a  peculiar  glow  came  to  his  eyes  at  times,  he  was 
never  roused  from  his  exasperating  coolness.  When 
her  shafts  were  unusually  direct  and  biting,  and  the 
temptation  to  resent  was  keen,  he  merely  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  almost  gently,  and  said  :  “  Eh,  such 
women  !  ” 

Nevertheless,  there  were  men  at  FortLatrobe  who 
prophesied  trouble,  for  they  knew  there  was  a  deep 
strain  of  malice  in  the  French  half-breed  which  could 
be  the  more  deadly  because  of  its  rare  use.  Ffe  was 
not  easily  moved,  he  viewed  life  from  the  heights  of 
a  philosophy  which  could  separate  the  petty  from 
the  prodigious.  His  reputation  was  not  wholly  dis¬ 
quieting  ;  he  was  of  the  goats,  he  had  sometimes 
been  found  with  the  sheep,  he  preferred  to  be  num¬ 
bered  with  the  transgressors.  Like  Pierre,  his  one 
passion  was  gambling.  There  were  legends  that 
once  or  twice  in  his  life  he  had  had  another  passion, 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  NOBODIES. 


273 


but  that  some  Gorgon  drew  out  his  heart-strings 
painfully,  one  by  one,  and  left  him  inhabited  by  a 
pale  spirit  now  called  Irony,  now  Indifference — 
under  either  name  a  fret  and  an  anger  to  women. 

At  last  Blanche’s  attacks  on  Jacques  called  out 
anxious  protests  from  men  like  rollicking  Soldier 
Joe,  who  said  to  her  one  night :  “  Blanche,  there’s  a 
devil  in  Jacques.  Some  day  you’ll  startle  him,  and 
then  he’ll  shoot  you  as  cool  as  he  empties  the 
pockets  of  Freddy  Tarlton  over  there.” 

And  Blanche  replied :  “  When  he  does  that,  what 
will  you  do,  Joe  ^  ” 

“  Do  ?  Do  ?  ”  and  the  man  stroked  his  beard 
softly,  “Why,  give  him  ditto  —  cold.” 

“Well,  then,  there’s  nothing  to  row  about,  is 
there  ?  ” 

And  Soldier  Joe  was  not  on  the  instant  clever 
enough  to  answer  her  sophistry  ;  but  when  she  left 
him  and  he  had  thought  awhile,  he  said,  convinc¬ 
ingly  : 

“  But  where  would  you  be  then,  Blanche  ?  .  .  . 
That’s  the  point.” 

One  thing  was  known  and  certain :  Blanche  was 
earning  her  living  by  honest,  if  not  high-class, 
Ikbor.  Weir  the  tavern-keeper  said  she  was  “  worth 
hundreds  ”  to  him.  But  she  grew  pale,  her  eyes 
became  peculiarly  brilliant,  her  voice  took  a  lower 
key,  and  lost  a  kind  of  hoarseness  it  had  in 
the  past.  Men  came  in  at  times  merely  to  have  a 
joke  at  her  expense,  having  heard  of  her  new  life ; 
but  they  failed  to  enjoy  their  own  attempts  at 
humor.  Women  of  her  class  came  also,  some  with 
half-uncertain  jibes,  some  with  a  curious  wistfulness, 
and  a  few  with  scornful  oaths  ;  but  the  jibes  and 

18 


274 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


oaths  were  only  for  a  time.  It  became  known  that 
she  had  paid  the  coach  fare  of  Miss  Dido  (as  she 
was  called)  to  the  hospital  at  Wapiti,  and  had  raised 
a  subscription  for  her  maintenance  there,  heading  it 
herself  with  a  liberal  sum  !  Then  the  atmosphere 
round  her  became  less  trying ;  yet  her  temper  re¬ 
mained  changeable,  and  had  it  not  been  that  she  was 
good-looking  and  witty,  her  position  might  have  been 
insecure.  As  it  was,  she  ruled  in  a  neutral  territory 
where  she  was  the  only  woman. 

One  night,  after  an  inclement  remark  to  Jacques, 
in  the  card-room,  Blanche  came  back  to  the  bar,  and 
not  noticing  that,  while  she  was  gone.  Soldier  Joe 
had  entered  and  laid  himself  down  on  a  bench  in  a 
corner,  she  threw  her  head  passionately  forward  on 
her  arms  as  they  rested  on  the  counter,  and  cried  : 
“  O  my  God  !  my  God !  ” 

Soldier  Joe  lay  still  as  if  sleeping,  and  when 
Blanche  was  called  away  again  he  rose,  stole  out, 
went  down  to  Freddy  Tarlton’s  office,  and  offered  to 
bet  Freddy  two  to  one  that  Blanche  wouldn’t  live  a 
year.  Joe’s  experience  of  women  was  limited.  He 
had  in  his  mind  the  case  of  a  girl  who  had  accident¬ 
ally  smothered  her  child  ;  and  so  he  said, 

“Blanche  has  something  on  her  mind  that’s  killing 
her,  Freddy.  When  trouble  fixes  on  her  sort  it  kills 
swift  and  sure.  They’ve  nothing  to  live  for  but  life, 

and  it  isn’t  good  enough,  you  see,  for — for - ”  Joe 

paused  to  find  out  where  his  philosophy  was  taking 
him. 

Freddy  Tarlton  finished  the  sentence  for  him : 
“  For  a7i  inner  sorrow  is  a  consummg fire.” 

Fort  Latrobe  soon  had  an  unexpected  opportunity 
to  study  Soldier  Joe’s  theory.  One  night  Jacques 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  NOBODIES. 


275 


did  not  appear  at  Weir’s  Tavern  as  he  had  engaged 
to  do,  and  Soldier  Joe  and  another  went  across  the 
frozen  river  to  his  log-hut  to  seek  him.  They  found 
him  by  a  handful  of  fire  breathing  heavily  and  nearly 
unconscious.  One  of  the  sudden  and  frequently 
fatal  colds  of  the  mountains  had  fastened  on  him,  and 
he  had  begun  a  war  for  life.  Joe  started  back  at 
once  for  liquor  and  a  doctor,  leaving  his  comrade  to 
watch  by  the  sick  man.  He  could  not  understand 
why  Blanche  should  stagger  and  grow  white  when  he 
told  her ;  nor  why  she  insisted  on  taking  the  liquor 
herself ;  he  did  not  yet  guess  the  truth. 

The  next  day  all  Fort  Latrobe  knew  that  Blanche 
was  nursing  Jacques,  on  what  was  thought  to  be  his 
no-return  journey.  The  doctor  said  it  was  a  danger¬ 
ous  case,  and  he  held  out  little  hope.  Nursing 
might  bring  him  through,  but  the  chance  was  very 
slight.  Blanche  only  occasionally  left  the  sick  man’s 
bedside  to  be  relieved  by  Soldier  Joe  and  Freddy 
Tarlton.  It  dawned  on  Joe  at  last, — it  had  dawned 
on  Freddy  before, — what  Blanche  meant  by  the 
heart-breaking  words  uttered  that  night  in  Weir’s 
Tavern.  Down  through  the  crust  of  this  woman’s 
heart  had  gone  something  both  joyful  and  painful. 
Whatever  it  was,  it  made  Blanche  a  saving  nurse,  a 
good  apothecary ;  for,  one  night  the  doctor  pro¬ 
nounced  Jacques  out  of  danger,  and  said  that  a  few 
days  would  bring  him  round  if  he  was  careful. 

Now,  for  the  first  time,  Jacques  fully  comprehended 
all  Blanche  had  done  for  him,  though  he  had  ceased 
to  wonder  at  her  changed  aftitude  to  him.  Through 
his  suffering  and  his  delirium  had  come  the  un¬ 
derstanding  of  it.  When,  after  the  crisis,  the 
doctor  turned  away  from  the  bed,  Jacques  looked 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


276 

Steadily  into  Blanche’s  eyes,  and  she  flushed,  and 
wiped  the  wet  from  his  brow  with  her  handkerchief. 
He  took  the  handkerchief  from  her  fingers  gently 
before  Soldier  Joe  came  over  to  the  bed. 

The  doctor  had  insisted  that  Blanche  should  go 
to  Weir’s  Tavern  and  get  the  night’s  rest,  needed  so 
much,  and  Joe  now  pressed  her  to  keep  her  promise. 
Jacques  added  an  urging  word,  and  after  a  time  she 
started,  Joe  had  forgotten  to  tell  her  that  a  new 
road  had  been  made  on  the  ice  since  she  had  crossed, 
and  that  the  old  road  was  dangerous.  Wandering 
with  her  thoughts  she  did  not  notice  the  spruce 
bushes  set  up  for  signal,  until  she  had  stepped  on  a 
thin  piece  of  ice.  It  bent  beneath  her.  She  slipped  : 
there  was  a  sudden  sinking,  a  sharp  cry,  then 
another,  piercing  and  hopeless — and  it  was  the  one 
word — “Jacques!”  Then  the  night  was  silent  as 
before.  But  some  one  had  heard  the  cry.  Freddy 
Tarlton  was  crossing  the  ice  also,  and  that  desolat¬ 
ing  Jacques  /  had  reached  his  ears.  When  he  found 
her  he  saw  that  she  had  been  taken  and  the  other 
left.  But  that  other,  asleep  in  his  bed  at  the  sacred 
moment  when  she  parted,  suddenly  waked,  and  said 
to  Soldier  Joe  : 

“  Did  you  speak,  Joe  ?  Did  you  call  me  ?  ” 

But  Joe,  who  had  been  playing  cards  with  himself, 
replied  :  “  I  haven’t  said  a  word.” 

And  Jacques  then  added  :  “  Perhaps  I  dream — 
perhaps.” 

On  the  advice  of  the  doctor  and  Freddy  Tarlton, 
the  bad  news  was  kept  from  Jacques.  When  she 
did  not  come  the  next  day,  Joe  told  him  that  she 
couldn’t ;  that  he  ought  to  remember  she  had  had 
no  rest  for  weeks,  and  had  earned  a  long  rest.  And 
Jacques  said  that  was  so. 


A  TRAGEDY  OF  NOBODIES. 


277 

Weir  began  preparations  for  the  funeral,  but 
Freddy  Tarlton  took  them  out  of  his  hands — Freddy 
Tarlton,  who  visited  at  the  homes  of  Fort  Latrobe. 
But  he  had  the  strength  of  his  convictions,  such  as 
they  were.  He  began  by  riding  thirty  miles  and 
back  to  ask  the  young  clergyman  at  Purple  Hill  to 
come  and  bury  Blanche.  She’d  reformed  and  been 
baptized^  Freddy  said  with  a  sad  sort  of  humor.  And 
the  clergyman,  when  he  knew  all,  said  that  he  would 
come.  Freddy  was  hardly  prepared  for  what  oc¬ 
curred  when  he  got  back.  Men  were  waiting  for 
him,  anxious  to  know  if  the  clergyman  was  coming. 
They  had  raised  a  subscription  to  cover  the  cost  of 
the  funeral,  and  among  them  were  men  such  as 
Harry  Delong. 

“  You  fellows  would  better  not  mix  yourselves  up 
in  this,”  said  Freddy. 

But  Harry  Delong  replied  quickly  :  ‘‘  I’m  going 
to  see  the  thing  through.”  And  the  others  endorsed 
his  words. 

When  the  clergyman  came,  and  looked  at  the  face 
of  this  Magdalene,  he  was  struck  by  its  comeliness 
and  quiet.  All  else  seemed  to  have  been  washed 
away.  On  her  breast  lay  a  knot  of  white  roses — • 
white  roses  in  this  winter  desert.  I 

One  man  present,  seeing  the  look  of  wonder  in’ 
the  clergyman’s  eyes,  said  quietly  :  “  My — my  wife’ 
sent  them.  She  brought  the  plant  from  Quebec.  Iti 
has  just  bloomed.  She  knows  all  about  herP  I 

That  man  was  Harry  Delong.  The  keeper  of  his 
home  understood  the  other  homeless  woman.  When 
she  knew  of  Blanche’s  death  she  said :  “  Poor  girl, 
poor  girl !  ”  and  then  she  had  gently  added  :  “Pool 
Jacques ! ” 


278  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

And  Jacques,  as  he  sat  in  a  chair  by  the  fire  four 
days  after  the  tragedy,  did  not  know  that  the  clergy¬ 
man  was  reading  over  a  grave  on  the  hillside,  words 
which  are  for  the  hearts  of  the  quick  as  for  the  un¬ 
tenanted  dead. 

To  Jacques’  inquiries  after  Blanche,  Soldier  Joe 
had  made  changing  and  vague  replies.  At  last  he 
said  that  she  was  ill ;  then,  that  she  was  very  ill, 
and  again,  that  she  was  better,  almighty  better — 
now.  The  third  day  following  the  funeral,  Jacques 
insisted  that  he  would  go  and  see  her.  The  doctor 
at  length  decided  he  should  be  taken  to  Weir’s 
Tavern,  where,  they  declared  they  would  tell  him 
all.  And  they  took  him,  and  placed  him  by  the  fire 
in  the  card-room,  a  wasted  figure,  but  fastidious  in 
manner  and  scrupulously  neat  in  person  as  of  old. 
Then  he  asked  for  Blanche  ;  but  even  now  they  had 
not  the  courage  for  it.  The  doctor  nervously  went 
out,  as  if  to  seek  her ;  and  Freddy  Tarlton  said : 
“  Jacques,  let  us  have  a  little  game,  just  for  quarters, 
you  know.  Eh  ?  ” 

The  other  replied  without  eagerness  :  “  Voila,  one 
game,  then !  ” 

They  drew  him  to  the  table,  but  he  played  list¬ 
lessly.  His  eyes  shifted  ever  to  the  door.  Luck 
was  against  him.  Finally  he  pushed  over  a  silver 
piece,  and  said  ;  “  The  last.  My  money  is  all  gone. 
Bien  !  ”  He  lost  that  too. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  a  ranchman  from 
Purple  Hill  entered.  He  looked  carelessly  round, 
and  then  said  loudly  ; 

“  Say,  Joe,  so  you’ve  buried  Blanche,  have  you? 
Poor  sinner  !  ” 

There  was  a  heavy  silence.  No  one  replied. 


A  TRA  GED  V  OF  NOB  ODIES.  279 

Jacques  started  to  his  feet,  gazed  around  searchingly, 
painfully,  and  presently  gave  a  great  gasp.  His 
hands  made  a  chafing  motion  in  the  air,  and  then 
blood  showed  on  his  lips  and  chin.  He  drew  a 
handkerchief  from  his  breast. 

Pardon  !  .  .  .  Pardon!''  he  faintly  cried  in  simple 
apology,  and  put  it  to  his  mouth. 

Then  he  fell  backwards  in  the  arms  of  Soldier  Joe, 
who  wiped  a  moisture  from  the  lifeless  cheek  as  he 
laid  the  body  on  a  bed. 

In  a  corner  of  the  stained  handkerchief  they  found 
the  word, — 


Planche. 


Antoine  and  Angelique. 


“The  birds  are  going  south,  Antoine — see — and 
it  is  so  early  !  ” 

“  Yes,  Angelique,  the  winter  will  be  long.” 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  :  “  Antoine,  I  heard 
a  child  cry  in  the  night,  and  I  could  not  sleep.” 

“  It  was  a  devil-bird,  my  wife ;  it  flies  slowly,  and 
the  summer  is  dead.” 

“  Antoine,  there  was  a  rushing  of  wings  by  my 
bed  before  the  morn  was  breaking.” 

“  The  wild-geese  know  their  way  in  the  night, 
Angelique  ;  but  they  flew  by  the  house  and  not  near 
thy  bed.” 

“The  two  black  squirrels  have  gone  from  the 
hickory  tree.” 

“  They  have  hidden  away  with  the  bears  in  the 
earth ;  for  the  frost  comes,  and  it  is  the  time  of 
sleep.” 

“  A  cold  hand  was  knocking  at  my  heart  when  I 
said  my  aves  last  night,  my  Antoine.” 

“  The  heart  of  a  woman  feels  many  strange  things  ; 
I  cannot  answer,  my  wife.” 

“  Let  us  go  also  southward,  Antoine,  before  the 
great  winds  and  the  wild  frost  come.” 

“  I  love  thee,  Angelique,  but  I  cannot  go.” 

“  Is  not  love  greater  than  all  ?  ” 

“  To  keep  a  pledge  is  greater.” 

“  Yet  if  evil  come  ?  ” 


ANTOINE  AND  ANCELIQUE. 


2S1 


“  There  is  the  mine.” 

“  None  travels  hither ;  who  should  find  it  ?  ” 

“  He  said  to  me,  my  wife  :  ‘  Antoine,  will  you 
stay  and  watch  the  mine  until  I  come  with  the  birds 
northward,  again  ?  ’  and  I  said  :  ‘  I  will  stay,  and 
Angelique  will  stay  ;  I  will  watch  the  mine.’  ” 

“  This  is  for  his  riches,but  for  our  peril,  Antoine.” 

“  Who  can  say  whither  a  woman’s  fancy  goes  ? 
It  is  full  of  guessing.  It  is  clouds  and  darkness 
to-day,  and  sunshine — so  much — to-morrow.  I  can¬ 
not  answer.” 

“  I  have  a  fear  ;  if  my  husband  loved  me - ” 

“  There  is  the  mine,”  he  interrupted  firmly. 

“  When  my  heart  aches  so - ” 

Angelique,  there  is  the  mine.” 

“  Ah,  my  Antoine  !  ” 

And  so  these  two  stayed  on  the  island  of  St.  Jean, 
in  Lake  Superior,  through  the  purple  haze  of  autumn, 
into  the  white  brilliancy  of  winter,  guarding  the 
Rose-Tree  Mine,  which  Falding  the  Englishman 
and  his  companions  had  prospected  and  declared  to 
be  their  Ophir. 

But  St.  Jean  was  far  from  the  ways  of  settlement, 
and  there  was  little  food  and  only  one  hut,  and  many 
things  must  be  done  for  the  Rose-Tree  Mine  in  the 
places  where  men  sell  their  souls  for  money ;  and 
Antoine  and  Angelique,  French  peasants  from  the 
parish  of  Ste.  Irene  in  Quebec,  were  left  to  guard  the 
place  of  treasure,  until,  to  the  sound  of  the  laughing 
spring,  there  should  come  many  men  and  much 
machinery,  and  the  sinking  of  shafts  in  the  earth, 
and  the  making  of  riches. 

But  when  Antoine  and  Angelique  were  left  alone 
in  the  waste,  and  God  began  to  draw  the  pale  cover- 


282  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

let  of  frost  slowly  across  land  and  water,  and  to  sur¬ 
round  St.  Jean  with  a  stubborn  moat  of  ice,  the  heart 
of  the  woman  felt  some  coming  danger,  and  at  last 
broke  forth  in  words  of  timid  warning.  When  she 
once  had  spoken  she  said  no  more,  but  stayed  and 
builded  the  heaps  of  earth  about  the  house,  and  filled 
every  crevice  against  the  inhospitable  Spirit  of  Winds, 
and  drew  her  world  closer  and  closer  within  those 
two  rooms  where  they  should  live  through  many 
months. 

The  winter  was  harsh,  but  the  hearts  of  the  two 
were  strong.  They  loved ;  and  Love  is  the  parent 
of  endurance,  the  begetter  of  courage.  And  every 
day,  because  it  seemed  his  duty,  Antoine  inspected 
the  Rose-Tree  Mine ;  and  every  day  also,  because  it 
seemed  her  duty,  Angelique  said  many  aves.  And 
one  prayer  was  much  with  her, — for  spring  to  come 
early  that  the  child  should  not  suffer  :  the  child 
which  the  good  God  was  to  give  to  her  and  Antoine. 

In  the  first  hours  of  each  evening  Antoine  smoked, 
and  Angelique  sang  the  old  songs  which  their  an¬ 
cestors  learned  in  Normandy.  One  night  Antoine’s 
face  was  lighted  with  a  fine  fire  as  he  talked  of 
happy  days  in  the  parish  of  Ste.  Irene  ;  and  with 
that  romantic  fervor  of  his  race  which  the  stern 
winters  of  Canada  could  not  kill,  he  sang,  A  la  Claire 
Fontaine,  the  well-beloved  song-child  of  the  voya- 
geurs'  hearts. 

And  the  wife  smiled  far  away  into  the  dancing 
flames — far  away,  because  the  fire  retreated,  re¬ 
treated  to  the  little  church  where  they  two  were  wed ; 
and  she  did  as  most  good  women  do — though  exactly 
why,  man  the  insufficient  cannot  declare — she  wept 
a  little  through  her  smiles.  But  when  the  last  verse 


ANTOINE  AND  ANGELIQUE.  283 

came,  both  smiles  and  tears  ceased.  Antoine  sang 
it  with  a  fond  monotony  : 

“  Would  that  each  rose  were  growing 
Upon  the  rose-tree  gay, 

And  that  the  fatal  rose-tree 
Deep  in  the  ocean  lay. 

I'  y a  longtemps  qzce  je  f  awie 
Jamais  je  ne  f  oiiblieraiT 

Angelique’s  heart  grew  suddenly  heavy.  From 
the  rose-tree  of  the  song  her  mind  fled  and  shivered 
before  the  leafless  rose-tree  by  the  mine ;  and  her 
old  dread  came  back. 

Of  course  this  was  foolish  of  Angelique  ;  of  course 
the  wise  and  great  throw  contumely  on  all  such 
superstition  ;  and  knowing  women  will  smile  at  each 
other  meaningly,  and  with  pity  for  a  dull  man- writer, 
and  will  whisper,  “  Of  course,  the  child.”  But  many 
things  your  majesties,  are  hidden  from  your  wisdom 
and  your  greatness,  and  are  given  to  the  simple — 
to  babes  and  the  mothers  of  babes. 

It  was  upon  this  very  night  that  Falding  the 
Englishman  sat  with  other  men  in  a  London  tavern, 
talking  joyously.  “  There’s  been  the  luck  of  Heaven,” 
he  said,  “  in  the  whole  exploit.  We’d  been  prospect¬ 
ing  for  months.  As  a  sort  of  try  in  a  back-water  we 
rowed  over  one  night  to  an  island  and  pitched  tents. 
Not  a  dozen  yards  from  where  we  camped  was  a  rose- 
tree  ;  think  of  it,  Belgard, — a  rose-tree  on  a  rag-tag 
island  of  Lake  Superior !  ‘  There’s  luck  in  odd 

numbers,’  says  Rory  O’More.  ‘  There’s  luck  here,’ 
said  I ;  and  at  it  we  went  just  beside  the  rose-tree. 
What’s  the  result  ?  Look  at  that  prospectus  :  a  com¬ 
pany  with  a  capital  of  two  hundred  thousand ;  the 


284 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


whole  island  in  our  hands  in  a  week ;  and  Antoine 
squatting  on  it  now  like  Bonaparte  on  Elbe.” 

“  And  what  does  Antoine  get  out  of  this  ?  ”  said 
Belgard. 

“  Forty  dollars  a  month  and  his  keep.” 

“  Why  not  write  him  olf  a  couple  of  shares  to  pro¬ 
pitiate  the  gods — gifts  unto  the  needy,  eh  ! — a  thou¬ 
sand-fold— what  ?  ” 

“  Yes  ;  it  might  be  done,  Belgard,  if - ” 

But  some  one  just  then  proposed  the  toast,  “  The 
Rose-Tree  Mine  !  ”  and  the  souls  of  these  men  waxed 
proud  and  merry,  for  they  had  seen  the  investor’s 
palm  filled  with  gold,  the  maker  of  conquest.  While 
Antoine  was  singing  with  his  wife,  they  were  holding 
revel  within  the  sound  of  Bow  Bells.  And  far  into 
the  night,  through  silent  Cheapside,  a  rolling  voice 
swelled  through  much  laughter  thus : 

“  Gai  Ion  la.,  gai  le  rosier., 

Du  joli  mois  de  Mai.'"' 


The  next  day  there  were  heavy  heads  in  London  ; 
but  the  next  day,  also,  a  man  lay  ill  in  the  hut  on  the 
island  of  St.  Jean. 

Antoine  had  sung  his  last  song.  He  had  waked 
in  the  night  with  a  start  of  pain,  and  by  the  time  the 
sun  was  halting  at  noon  above  the  Rose-Tree  Mine, 
he  had  begun  a  journey,  the  record  of  which  no  man 
has  ever  truly  told,  neither  its  beginning  nor  its  end  ; 
because  that  which  is  of  the  spirit  refuseth  to  be 
interpreted  by  the  flesh.  Some  signs  there  be,  but 
they  are  brief  and  shadowy;  the  awe  of  It  is  hidden 
in  the  mind  of  him  that  goeth  out  lonely  unto  God. 

When  the  call  goes  forth,  not  wife  nor  child  nor 


ANTOINE  AND  ANGELIQUE. 


285 


any  other  can  hold  the  wayfarer  back,  though  hq 
may  loiter  for  an  instant  on  the  brink.  The  poor 
medicaments  which  Angelique  brings  avail  not  ; 
these  soothing  hands  and  healing  tones,  they  pass 
through  clouds  of  the  middle  place  between  heaven 
and  earth  to  Antoine.  It  is  only  when  the  second 
midnight  comes  that,  with  conscious,  but  pensive 
and  far-off,  eyes,  he  says  to  her,  “  Angelique,  my 
wife.” 

For  reply  her  lips  pressed  his  cheek,  and  her  fin¬ 
gers  hungered  for  his  neck.  Then ;  “  Is  there  pain 
now,  Antoine  ?  ” 

“  There  is  no  pain,  Angelique.” 

He  closed  his  eyes  slowly  ;  her  lips  framed  an  ave. 

“  The  mine,”  he  said,  “  the  mine — until  the  spring.” 

“  Yes,  Antoine,  until  the  spring.” 

“  Have  you  candles — many  candles,  Angelique  ?  ” 

“  There  are  many,  my  husband.” 

“  The  ground  is  as  iron  ;  one  cannot  dig,  and 
the  water  under  the  ice  is  cruel — is  it  not  so, 
Angelique  ?  ” 

“  No  axe  could  break  the  ground,  and  the  water  is 
cruel,”  she  said. 

“  You  will  see  my  face  until  the  winter  is  gone,  my 
wife.” 

She  bowed  her  head,  but  smoothed  his  hand  mean¬ 
while,  and  her  throat  was  quivering. 

He  partly  slept ;  his  body  slept,  though  his  mind 
was  feeling  its  way  to  wonderful  things.  But  near 
the  morning  his  eyes  opened  wide,  and  he  said  : 
“  Some  one  calls  out  of  the  dark,  Angelique.” 

And  she,  with  her  hand  on  her  heart,  replied  :  “  It 
is  the  cry  of  a  dog,  Antoine.” 

“  But  there  are  footsteps  at  the  door,  my  wife.” 


286 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  Nay,  Antoine  ;  it  is  the  snow  beating  upon  the 
window.” 

“  There  is  the  sound  of  wings  close  by — dost  thou 
not  hear  them,  Angelique  ?  ” 

“  Wings — wings,”  she  falteringly  said  :  “  it  is  the 
hot  blast  through  the  chimney ;  the  night  is  cold, 
Antoine.” 

“The  night  is  very  cold,”  he  said;  and  he 
trembled.  .  .  .  “  I  hear,  O  my  wife,  I  hear  the 
voice  of  a  little  child  .  .  .  the  voice  is  like  thine, 
Angelique.” 

And  she  not  knowing  what  to  reply,  said  softly  : 
“  There  is  hope  in  the  voice  of  a  child ;  ”  and  the 
mother  stirred  within  her  ;  and  in  the  moment  he 
knew  also  that  the  Spirits  would  give  her  the  child 
in  safety,  that  she  should  not  be  alone  in  the  long 
winter. 

The  sounds  of  the  harsh  night  had  ceased — the 
snapping  of  the  leafless  branches,  the  cracking  of 
the  earth,  and  the  heaving  of  the  rocks  :  the  Spirits 
of  the  Frost  had  finished  their  work  ;  and  just  as  the 
gray  forehead  of  dawn  appeared  beyond  the  cold 
hills,  Antoine  cried  out  gently  :  “  Angelique  .  .  . 
Ah.,  mon  Capitaine  .  .  .  Jhu  ”...  and  then,  no 
more. 

Night  after  night  Angelique  lighted  candles  in  the 
place  where  Antoine  smiled  on  in  his  frozen  silence  ; 
and  masses  were  said  for  his  soul — the  masses  Love 
murmurs  for  its  dead.  The  earth  could  not  receive 
him  ;  its  bosom  was  adamant ;  but  no  decay  could 
touch  him  ;  and  she  dwelt  alone  Avith  this,  that  was 
her  husband,  until  one  beautiful,  bitter  day,  when, 
with  no  eye  save  God’s  to  see  her,  and  no  human 
comfort  by  her,  she  gave  birth  to  a  man-child.  And 


ANTOIIVE  AND  ANGELIQUE.  287 

yet  that  night  she  lighted  the  candles  at  the  dead 
man’s  head  and  feet,  dragging  herself  thither  in  the 
cold  ;  and  in  her  heart  she  said  that  the  smile  on 
Antoine’s  face  was  deeper  than  it  had  been  before. 

In  the  early  spring,  when  the  earth  painfully 
breathed  away  the  frost  that  choked  it,  with  her  child 
for  mourner,  and  herself  for  sexton  and  priest,  she 
buried  Antoine  with  maimed  rites  :  but  hers  were 
the  prayers  of  the  poor,  and  of  the  pure  in  heart ; 
and  she  did  not  fret  because,  in  the  hour  that  her 
comrade  was  put  away  into  the  dark,  the  world  was 
laughing  at  the  thought  of  coming  summer. 

Before  another  sunrise,  the  owners  of  the  island 
of  St.  Jean  claimed  what  was  theirs  ;  and  because 
that  which  had  happened  worked  upon  their  hearts, 
they  called  the  child  St.  Jean,  and  from  that  time 
forth  they  made  him  to  enjoy  the  goodly  fruits  of 
the  Rose-Tree  Mine. 


A  Sanctuary  of  the  Plains. 

Father  Corraine  stood  with  his  chin  in  his  hand 
and  one  arm  supporting  the  other,  thinking  deeply. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  northern  horizon,  along 
which  the  sun  was  casting  oblique  rays  ;  for  it  was 
the  beginning  of  the  winter  season. 

Where  the  prairie  touched  the  sun  it  was  respon¬ 
sive  and  radiant ;  but  on  either  side  of  this  red  and 
golden  tapestry  there  was  a  tawny  glow  and  then  a 
duskiness  which,  curving  round  to  the  north  and 
east,  became  blue  and  cold— -an  impalpable  but  per¬ 
ceptible  barrier  rising  from  the  earth,  and  shutting 
in  Father  Corraine  like  a  prison  wall.  And  this 
shadow  crept  stealthily  on  and  invaded  the  whole 
circle,  until,  where  the  radiance  had  been,  there  was 
one  continuous  wall  of  gloom,  rising  arc  upon  arc  to 
invasion  of  the  zenith,  and  pierced  only  by  some 
intrusive  wandering  stars. 

And  still  the  priest  stood  there  looking,  until  the 
darkness  closed  down  on  him  with  an  almost  tangi¬ 
ble  consistency.  Then  he  appeared  to  remember 
himself,  and  turned  away  with  a  gentle  remonstrance 
of  his  head,  and  entered  the  hut  behind  him.  He 
lighted  a  lamp,  looked  at  it  doubtfully,  blew  it  out, 
set  it  aside,  and  lighted  a  candle.  This  he  set  in 
the  one  window  of  the  room  which  faced  the  north 
and  west. 

He  went  to  a  door  opening  into  the  only  other  room 
in  the  hut,  and  with  his  hand  on  the  latch  looked 
288 


A  SAJVCTUAHV  OF  THE  PLAINS.  289 

thoughtfully  and  sorrowfully  at  something  in  the 
corner  of  the  room  where  he  stood.  He  was  evidently 
debating  upon  some  matter, — probably  the  removal 
of  what  was  in  the  corner  to  the  other  room.  If  so, 
he  finally  decided  to  abandon  the  intention.  He 
sat  down  in  a  chair,  faced  the  candle,  again  dropped 
his  chin  upon  his  hand,  and  kept  his  eyes  musingly 
on  the  light.  He  was  silent  and  motionless  a  long 
time,  then  his  lips  moved,  and  he  seemed  to  repeat 
something  to  himself  in  whispers. 

Presently  he  took  a  well-worn  book  from  his 
pocket,  and  read  aloud  from  it  softly  what  seemed 
to  be  an  office  of  his  Church.  His  voice  grew 
slightly  louder  as  he  continued,  until,  suddenly,  there 
ran  through  the  words  a  deep  sigh  which  did  not 
come  from  himself.  He  raised  his  head  quickly, 
started  to  his  feet,  and  turning  round,  looked  at  that 
something  in  the  corner.  It^  took  the  form  of  a 
human  figure,  which  raised  itself  on  an  elbow  and 
said  :  “  Water— water— for  the  love  of  God  !  ” 

Father  Corraine  stood  painfully  staring  at  the 
figure  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  words  broke 
from  him  :  “Not  dead  !  not  dead  !  wonderful ! 
Then  he  stepped  quickly  to  a  table,  took  there¬ 
from  a  pannikin  of  water,  and  kneeling,  held  it  to 
the  lips  of  the  gasping  figure,  throwing  his  arm 
round  its  shoulder,  and  supporting  its  head  on  his 
breast. 

Again  he  spoke  :  “  Alive  !  Blessed  be  Heaven  !  ” 

The  hands  of  the  figure  seized  the  hand  of  the 
priest,  which  held  the  pannikin,  and  kissed  it,  saying 
faintly  :  “You  are  good  to  me.  .  .  .  But  I  must  sleep — ■ 

I  must  sleep — 1  am  so  tired  ;  and  I’ve — very  far — ■ 
to  go — across  the  world.” 


290 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


This  was  said  very  slowly,  then  the  head  thick  with 
brown  curls  dropped  again  on  the  priest’s  breast, 
heavy  with  sleep.  Father  Corraine,  flushing  slightly 
at  first,  became  now  slightly  pale,  and  his  brow  was 
a  place  of  war  between  thankfulness  and  perplexity. 
But  he  said  something  prayerfully,  then  closed  his 
lips  firmly,  and  gently  laid  the  figure  down,  where 
it  was  immediately  clothed  about  with  slumber. 
Then  he  rose,  and  standing  with  his  eyes  bent  upon 
the  sleeper  and  his  fingers  clasping  each  other  tightly 
before  him  said  :  “  Poor  girl !  So,  she  is  alive.  And 
now  what  will  come  of  it  ?  ” 

He  shook  his  gray  head  in  doubt,  and  immediately 
began  to  prepare  some  simple  food  and  refreshment 
for  the  sufferer  when  she  should  awake.  In  the 
midst  of  doing  so  he  paused  and  repeated  the  words. 
And  what  will  come  of  Then  he  added; 

“  There  was  no  sign  of  pulse  nor  heart-beat  when  I 
found  her.  But  life  hides  itself  where  man  cannot 
reach  it.” 

Having  finished  his  task,  he  sat  down,  drew  the 
book  of  holy  offices  again  from  his  bosom,  and  read 
it,  whisperingly,  for  a  time  ;  then  fell  to  musing,  and, 
after  a  considerable  time,  knelt  down  as  if  in  prayer. 
While  he  knelt,  the  girl,  as  if  startled  from  her  sleep 
by  some  inner  shock,  opened  her  eyes  wide  and 
looked  at  him,  first  with  bewilderment,  then  with 
anxiety,  then  with  wistful  thankfulness.  “  Oh,  I 
thought — I  thought  when  I  awoke  before  that  it  was 
a  woman.  But  it  is  the  good  Father  Corraine — 
Corraine,  yes,  that  was  the  name.” 

The  priest’s  clean-shaven  face,  long  hair,  and 
black  cassock  had,  in  her  first  moments  of  con¬ 
sciousness,  deceived  her.  Now  a  sharp  pain  brought 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS. 


291 

a  moan  to  her  lips ;  and  this  drew  the  priest’s  atten¬ 
tion.  He  rose,  and  brought  her  some  food  and  drink. 
“  My  daughter,”  he  said,  “  you  must  take  these.” 
Something  in  her  face  touched  his  sensitive  mind, 
and  he  said,  solemnly  :  “You  are  alone  with  me  and 
God,  this  hour.  Be  at  peace.  Eat.” 

Her  eyes  swam  with  instant  tears.  “  I  know _ I 

am  alone — with  God,”  she  said.  Again  he  gently 
urged  the  food  upon  her,  and  she  took  a  little ;  but 
now  and  then  she  put  her  hand  to  her  side  as  if  in 
pain.  And  once,  as  she  did  so,  she  said  :  “  I’ve  far 
to  go  and  the  pain  is  bad.  Did  they  take  him 
away .?  ” 

Father  Corraine  shook  his  head.  “  I  do  not  know 
of  whom  you  speak,”  he  replied.  “  When  I  went  to 
my  door  this  morning  I  found  you  lying  there.  I 
brought  you  in,  and,  finding  no  sign  of  life  in  you, 
sent  Featherfoot,  my  Indian,  to  Fort  Cypress  for  a 
trooper  to  come ;  for  I  feared  that  there  had  been  ill 
done  to  you,  somehow.  This  border-side  is  but  a 
rough  country.  It  is  not  always  safe  for  a  woman  to 
travel  alone.” 

The  girl  shuddered.  “  Father,”  she  said, — “  Father 
Corraine,  I  believe  you  are  ?  ”  (Here  the  priest 
boM^ed  his  head.)  “  I  wish  to  tell  you  all,  so  that 
if^  ever  any  evil  did  come  to  me,  if  I  should  die 
without  doin’  what’s  in  my  heart  to  do,  you  would 
know  ,•  and  tell  him  if  you  ever  saw  him,  how  I 
remembered,  and  kept  rememberin’  him  always, 
till  my  heart  got  sick  with  waitin’,  and  I  came  to  find 
him  far  across  the  seas.” 

“Tell  me  your  tale,  my  child,”  he  patiently  said. 
Her  eyes  were  ou  the  candle  in  the  window  ques- 
tioningly.  “  It  is  for  the  trooper — to  guide  him,” 


292 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


the  other  remarked.  “  ’Tis  past  time  that  he  should 
be  here.  When  you  are  able  you  can  go  ■with  him 
to  the  Fort.  You  -will  be  better  cared  for  there,  and 
will  be  among  women.” 

“  The  man — the  man  who  was  kind  to  me — I  wish 
I  knew  of  him,”  she  said. 

“  I  am  waiting  for  your  story,  my  child.  Speak 
of  your  trouble,  whether  it  be  of  the  mind  and  body, 
or  of  the  soul.” 

“  You  shall  judge  if  it  be  of  the  soul,”  she  answered. 
“  I  come  from  far  away.  I  lived  in  old  Donegal 
since  the  day  that  I  was  born  there,  and  I  had 
a  lover,  as  brave  and  true  a  lad  as  ever  trod  the 
world.  But  sorrow  came.  One  night  at  Farcalladen 
Rise  there  was  a  crack  of  arms  and  a  clatter  of 
fleeing  hoofs,  and  he  that  I  loved  came  to  me  and 
said  a  quick  word  of  partin’,  and  with  a  kiss — it’s 
burnin’  on  my  lips  yet — askin’  pardon,  father,  for 
speech  of  this  to  you — and  he  was  gone,  an  outlaw, 
to  Australia.  For  a  time  word  came  from  him. 
Then  I  was  taken  ill  and  couldn’t  answer  his  letters, 
and  a  cousin  of  my  own,  who  had  tried  to  win  my 
love,  did  a  wicked  thing.  He  wrote  a  letter  to  him 
and  told  him  I  was  dyin’,  and  that  there  was  no  use 
of  farther  words  from  him.  And  never  again  did 
word  come  to  me  from  him.  But  I  waited,  my  heart 
sick  with  longin’  and  full  of  hate  for  the  memory  of 
the  man  who,  when  struck  with  death,  told  me 
of  the  cruel  deed  he  had  done  between  us  two.” 

She  paused,  as  she  had  to  do  several  times  during 
the  recital,  through  weariness  or  pain  ;  but,  after  a 
moment,  proceeded.  “  One  day,  one  beautiful  day, 
when  the  flowers  were  like  love  to  the  eye,  and  the 
larks  singin’  overhead,  and  my  thoughts  goin’  with 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  FLAIJVS. 


293 


them  as  they  swam  until  they  were  lost  in  the  sky, 
and  every  one  of  them  a  prayer  for  the  lad  livin’  yet, 
as  I  hoped,  somewhere  in  God’s  universe — there 
rode  a  gentleman  down  Farcalladen  Rise.  He 
stopped  me  as  I  walked,  and  said  a  kind  good-day 
to  me  ;  and  I  knew  when  I  looked  into  his  face 
that  he  had  word  for  me — the  whisperin’  of  some 
angel,  I  suppose, — and  I  said  to  him  as  though  he 
had  asked  me  for  it :  ‘  My  name  is  Mary  Callen, 
sir.’ 

“  At  that  he  started,  and  the  color  came  quick 
to  his  face  ;  and  he  said :  ‘  I  am  Sir  Duke  Lawless. 
I  come  to  look  for  Mary  Callen’s  grave.  Is  there  a 
Mary  Callen  dead,  and  a  Mary  Callen  livin’  and 
did  both  of  them  love  a  man  that  went  from  Far¬ 
calladen  Rise  one  wild  night  long  ago  ’ 

“  ‘  There’s  but  one  Mary  Callen,’  said  I ;  ‘  but 
the  heart  of  me  is  dead,  until  I  hear  news  that 
brings  it  to  life  again  }  ’ 

“  ‘  And  no  man  calls  you  wife  ?  ’  he  asked. 

No  man.  Sir  Duke  Lawless,’  answered  I.  ‘  And 
no  man  ever  could,  save  him  that  used  to  write  me 
of  you  from  the  heart  of  Australia ;  only  there  was 
no  Sir  to  your  name  then.’ 

“  ‘  I’ve  come  to  that  since,’  said  he. 

Oh,  tell  me,’  I  cried,  with  a  quiverin’  at  my 
heart,  ‘  tell  me,  is  he  livin  ’  ’ 

“  And  he  replied  :  ‘I  left  him  in  the  Pipi  Valley 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains  a  year  ago.’ 

“  ‘  A  year  ago  !  ’  said  I  sadly. 

“  ‘  I’m  ashamed  that  I’ve  been  so  long  in  cornin’ 
here,’  replied  he  ;  ‘  but,  of  course,  he  didn't  know 
that  you  were  alive,  and  I  had  been  parted  from 
a  lady  for  years — a  lover’s  quarrel — and  I  had  to 


294 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


choose  between  courtin’  her  again  and  marryin’  her, 
or  cornin’  to  Farcalladen  Rise  at  once.  Well,  I 
went  to  the  altar  first.’ 

“  ‘  Oh,  sir,  you’ve  come  with  the  speed  of  the 
wind,  for  now  that  I’ve  news  of  him,  it  is  only 
yesterday  that  he  went  away,  not  years  agone.  But 
tell  me,  does  he  ever  think  of  me  ?  ’  I  questioned. 

“  ‘  He  thinks  of  you,’  he  said,  ‘  as  one  for  whom 
the  masses  for  the  holy  dead  are  spoken ;  but  while 
I  knew  him,  first  and  last,  the  memory  of  you  was 
with  him.’ 

‘‘  With  that  he  got  off  his  horse,  and  said ;  ‘  I’ll 
walk  with  you  to  his  father’s  home.’ 

“  ‘  You’ll  not  do  that,’  I  replied ;  ‘  for  it’s  level 
with  the  ground.  God  punish  them  that  did  it  ! 
and  they’re  lyin’  in  the  glen  by  the  stream  that  he 
loved  and  galloped  over  many  a  time.’ 

“  ‘  They  are  dead — they  are  dead,  then,’  said  he, 
with  his  bridle  swung  loose  on  his  arm  and  his  hat 
off  reverently. 

“  ‘  Gone  home  to  Heaven  together,’  said  I,  ‘  one 
day  and  one  hour,  and  a  prayer  on  their  lips  for  the 
lad  ;  and  I  closin’  their  eyes  at  the  last.  And  before 
they  went  they  made  me  sit  by  them  and  sing  a 
song  that’s  common  here  with  us  ;  for  many  and  many 
of  the  strength  and  pride  of  Farcalladen  Rise  have 
sailed  the  wide  seas  north  and  south,  and  otherwhere, 
and  cornin’  back  may  be  and  may  be  not.’ 

“  ‘Hark,’  he  said,  very  gravely,  ‘  and  I’ll  tell  you 
what  it  is,  for  I’ve  heard  him  sing  it,  I  know,  in  the 
worst  days  and  the  best  days  that  ever  we  had, 
when  lucic  was  wicked  and  big  against  us  and  we 
starvin’  on  the  wallaby  track ;  or  when  we  found 
the  turn  in  the  lane  to  brighter  days.’ 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS. 


295 


“  And  then  with  me  lookin’  at  him  full  in  the  eyes, 
gentleman  though  he  was, — for  comrade  he  had  been 
with  the  man  I  loved, — he  said  to  me  there,  so  finely 
and  kindly,  it  ought  to  have  brought  the  dead  back 
from  their  graves  to  hear  these  words  : 

“  ‘  You’ll  travel  far  and  wide,  dear,  but  you’ll  come  back  again. 

You’ll  come  back  to  your  father  and  your  mother  in  the 
glen. 

Although  we  should  be  lyin’  ’neath  the  heather  grasses 
then — 

You’ll  be  cornin’  back,  my  darlin’ !  ’ 

“  ‘  You’ll  see  the  icebergs  sailin’  along  the  wintry  foam, 

The  white  hair  of  the  breakers,  and  the  wild  swans  as  they 
roam ; 

But  you’ll  not  forget  the  rowan  beside  your  father’s  home — 

You’ll  be  cornin’  back,  my  darlin’.’  ” 

Here  the  girl  paused  longer  than  usual,  and  the 
priest  dropped  his  forehead  in  his  hand  sadly. 

“  I’ve  brought  grief  to  your  kind  heart.  Father,” 
she  said. 

“No,  no,”  he  replied,  “not  sorrow  at  all;  but  I 
was  born  on  the  Liffey  side,  though  it’s  forty  years 
and  more  since  I  left  it,  and  I’m  an  old  man  now. 
That  song  I  knew  well,  and  the  truth  and  the  heart 
of  it  too.  ...  I  am  listening.” 

“  Well,  together  we  went  to  the  grave  of  the  father 
and  mother,  and  the  place  where  the  home  had 
been,  and  for  a  long  time  he  was  silent,  as  though 
they  who  slept  beneath  th'^  sod  were  his,  and  not 
another’s  ;  but  at  last  he  said  : 

“‘And  what  will  you  do?  I  don’t  quite  know 
where  he  is,  though  ;  when  last  I  heard  from  him 
and  his  comrades,  they  were  in  the  Pipi  Valley.’ 


296  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

“  My  heart  was  full  of  joy ;  for  though  I  saw  how 
touched  he  was  because  of  what  he  saw,  it  was  all 
common  to  my  sight,  and  I  had  grieved  much,  but 
had  had  little  delight ;  and  I  said  : 

“  ‘  There’s  only  one  thing  to  be  done.  He  cannot 
come  back  here,  and  I  must  go  to  him — that  is,’  said 
I,  ‘if  you  think  he  cares  for  me  still, — for  my  heart 
quakes  at  the  thought  that  he  might  have  changed.’ 

“  ‘  I  know  his  heart,’  said  he,  ‘  and  you’ll  find  him, 
I  doubt  not,  the  same,  though  he  buried  you  long 
ago  in  a  lonely  tomb, — the  tomb  of  a  sweet  remem¬ 
brance,  where  the  flowers  are  everlastin’.’  Then 
after  more  words  he  offered  me  money  with  which 
to  go ;  but  I  said  to  him  that  the  love  that  couldn’t 
carry  itself  across  the  sea  by  the  strength  of  the 
hands  and  the  sweat  of  the  brow  was  no  love  at  all ; 
and  that  the  harder  was  the  road  to  him  the  gladder 
I’d  be,  so  that  it  didn’t  keep  me  too  long,  and 
brought  me  to  him  at  last. 

“  He  looked  me  up  and  down  very  earnestly  for  a 
minute,  and  then  he  said  :  ‘  What  is  there  under  the 
roof  of  heaven  like  the  love  of  an  honest  woman  ! 
It  makes  the  world  worth  livin’  in.’ 

“  ‘  Yes,’  said  I,  ‘when  love  has  hope,  and  a  place 
to  lay  its  head.’ 

“  ‘  Take  this,’  said  he — and  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  his  watch — ‘and  carry  it  to  him  with  the 
regard  of  Duke  Lawless,  and  this  for  yourself’ — 
fetching  from  his  pocket  a  revolver  and  putting  it 
into  my  hands ;  ‘  for  the  prairies  are  but  rough 
places  after  all,  and  it’s  better  to  be  safe  than — • 
worried.  .  .  .  Never  fear  though  but  the  prairies 
will  bring  back  the  finest  of  blooms  to  your  cheek,  if 
fair  enough  it  is  now,  and  flush  his  eye  with  pride  of 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS. 


297 


you  ;  and  God  be  with  you  both,  if  a  sinner  may  say 
that,  and  breakin’  no  saint’s  prerogative.’  And  he 
mounted  to  ride  away,  havin’  shaken  my  hand  like 
a  brother ;  but  he  turned  again  before  he  went,  and 
said :  ‘  Tell  him  and  his  comrades  that  I’ll  shoulder 
my  gun  and  join  them  before  the  world  is  a  year 
older,  if  I  can.  For  that  land  is  God’s  land,  and 
its  people  are  my  people,  and  I  care  not  who  knows 
it,  whatever  here  I  be.’ 

‘‘  I  worked  my  way  across  the  sea,  and  stayed 
awhile  in  the  East  earning  money  to  carry  me  over 
the  land  and  into  the  Pipi  Valley.  I  joined  a  party 
of  emigrants  that  were  goin’  westward,  and  traveled 
far  with  them.  But  they  quarreled  and  separated, 
I  goin’  with  these  that  I  liked  best.  One  night, 
though,  I  took  my  horse  and  left ;  for  I  knew  there 
was  evil  in  the  heart  of  a  man  who  sought  me  con¬ 
tinually,  and  the  thing  drove  me  mad.  I  rode  until 
my  horse  could  stumble  no  farther,  and  then  I  took 
the  saddle  for  a  pillow  and  slept  on  the  bare  ground. 
And  in  the  morning  I  got  up  and  rode  on,  seein’  no 
house  nor  human  being  for  many  and  many  a  mile. 
When  everything  seemed  hopeless  I  came  suddenly 
upon  a  camp.  But  I  saw  that  there  was  only  one 
man  there,  and  I  should  have  turned  back,  but  that 
I  was  worn  and  ill,  and,  moreover,  I  had  ridden  al¬ 
most  upon  him.  But  he  was  kind.  He  shared  his 
food  with  me,  and  asked  me  where  I  was  goin’.  I 
told  him,  and  also  that  I  had  quarreled  with  those 
of  my  party  and  had  left  them — nothing  more.  He 
seemed  to  wonder  that  I  was  goin’  to  Pipi  Valley; 
and  when  I  had  finished  my  tale  he  said  :  ‘  Well,  I 
must  tell  you  that  I  am  not  good  company  for  you. 
I  have  a  name  that  doesn’t  pass  at  par  up  here.  To 

19 


298 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


speak  plain  truth,  troopers  are  looking  for  me,  and 
— strange  as  it  may  be — for  a  crime  which  I  didn’t 
commit.  That  is  the  foolishness  of  the  law.  But 
for  this  I’m  making  for  the  American  border, 
beyond  which,  treaty  or  no  treaty,  a  man  gets 
refuge.’ 

“  He  was  silent  after  that,  lookin’  at  me  thought¬ 
fully  the  while,  but  in  a  way  that  told  me  I  might 
trust  him,  evil  though  he  called  himself.  At  length 
he  said  :  ‘  I  know  a  good  priest.  Father  Corraine, 
who  has  a  cabin  sixty  miles  or  more  from  here,  and 
I’ll  guide  you  to  him,  if  so  be  you  can  trust  a  half- 
breed  and  a  gambler,  and  one  men  call  an  outlaw. 
If  not,  I’m  feared  it’ll  go  hard  with  you  ;  for  the  Cy¬ 
press  Hills  are  not  easy  travel,  as  I’ve  known  this 
many  a  year.  And  should  you  want  a  name  to  call 
me.  Pretty  Pierre  will  do,  though  my  godfathers  and 
godmothers  did  different  for  me  before  they  went  to 
Heaven.’  And  nothing  said  he  irreverently.  Father.” 

Here  the  priest  looked  up  and  answered  :  “Yes, 
yes,  I  know  him  well — an  evil  man,  and  yet  he  has 
suffered  too.  .  .  .  Well?  well?  my  daughter?” 

“  At  that  he  took  his  pistol  from  his  pocket  and 
handed  it.  ‘Take  that,’  he  said.  ‘It  will  make 
you  safer  with  me,  and  I’ll  ride  ahead  of  you,  and  we 
shall  reach  there  by  sundown,  I  hope.’ 

“  And  I  would  not  take  his  pistol,  but,  shamed  a 
little,  showed  him  the  one  Sir  Duke  Lawless  gave 
me.  ‘  That’s  right,’  he  said,  ‘  and,  maybe,  it’s  bet¬ 
ter  that  I  should  carry  mine,  for,  as  I  said,  there  are 
anxious  gentlemen  lookin’  for  me,  who  wish  to  give 
me  a  quiet  but  dreary  home.  And  see,’  he  added, 
‘  if  they  should  come  you  will  be  safe,  for  they  sit 
in  the  judgment  seat,  and  the  statutes  hang  at  their 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  299 

saddles,  and  I’ll  say  this  for  them,  that  a  woman  to 
them  is  as  a  saint  of  God  out  here  where  women  and 
saints  are  few.’ 

“  I  do  not  speak  as  he  spoke,  for  his  words  had 
a  turn  of  French  ;  but  I  knew  that,  whatever  he  was, 
I  should  travel  peaceably  with  him.  Yet  I  saw  that 
he  would  be  runnin’  the  risk  of  his  own  safety  for 
me,  and  I  told  him  that  I  could  not  have  him  do  it ; 
but  he  talked  me  lightly  down,  and  we  started.  We 
had  gone  but  a  little  distance,  when  there  galloped 
over  a  ridge  upon  us,  two  men  of  the  party  I  had 
left,  and  one,  I  saw,  was  the  man  I  hated  ;  and  I  cried 
out  and  told  Pretty  Pierre.  He  wheeled  his  horse, 
and  held  his  pistol  by  him.  They  said  that  I  should 
come  with  them,  and  they  told  a  dreadful  lie — that 
I  was  a  runaway  wife  ;  but  Pierre  answered  them 
they  lied.  At  this,  one  rode  forward  suddenly,  and 
clutched  me  at  my  waist  to  drag  me  from  my  horse. 
At  this,  Pierre’s  pistol  was  thrust  in  his  face,  and 
Pierre  bade  him  cease,  which  he  did  ;  but  the  other 
came  down  with  a  pistol  showin’,  and  Pierre,  seein’ 
they  were  determined,  fired ;  and  the  man  that 
clutched  at  me  fell  from  his  horse.  Then  the  other 
drew  off ;  and  Pierre  got  down,  and  stooped,  and 
felt  the  man’s  heart,  and  said  to  the  other:  ‘Take 
your  friend  away,  for  he  is  dead  ;  but  drop  that  pis¬ 
tol  of  yours  on  the  ground  first.’  And  the  man  did 
so ;  and  Pierre,  as  he  looked  at  the  dead  man, 
added  :  ‘  Why  did  he  make  me  kill  him  ?  ’ 

“  Then  the  two  tied  the  body  to  the  horse,  and  the 
man  rode  away  with  it.  We  traveled  on  without 
speakin’  for  a  long  time,  and  then  I  heard  him  say 
absently  :  ‘  I  am  sick  of  that.  When  once  you  have 
played  shuttlecock  with  human  life,  you  have  to 


300 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


play  it  to  the  end ;  that  is  the  penalty.  But  a  woman 
is  a  woman,  and  she  must  be  protected.’  Then 
afterward  he  turned  and  asked  me  if  I  had  friends 
in  Pipi  Valley  ;  and  because  what  he  had  done  for 
me  had  worked  upon  me,  I  told  him  of  the  man  I 
was  goin’  to  find.  And  he  started  in  his'  saddle,  and 
I  could  see  by  the  way  he  twisted  the  mouth  of  his 
horse  that  I  had  stirred  him.” 

Here  the  priest  interposed  :  “  What  is  the  name 
of  the  man  in  Pipi  Valley  to  whom  you  are  going.?  ” 

And  the  girl  replied:  “Ah,  Father,  have  I  not 
told  you? — It  is  Shon  McGann — of  Farcalladen 
Rise.” 

At  this.  Father  Corraine  seemed  suddenly  trou¬ 
bled,  and  he  looked  strangely  and  sadly  at  her.  But 
the  girl’s  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  candle  in  the 
window,  as  if  she  saw  her  story  in  it ;  and  she  con¬ 
tinued  :  “A  color  spread  upon  him,  and  then  left 
him  pale;  and  he  said:  ‘To  Shon  McGann — you 
are  going  to  Jmn  .?  Think  of  that — that !  ’  For  an 
instant  I  thought  a  horrible  smile  played  upon  his 
face,  and  I  grew  frightened,  and  said  to  him  :  ‘  You 
know  him.  You  are  not  sorry  that  you  are  helping 
me  ?  You  and  Shon  McGann  are  not  enemies?’ 

“  After  a  moment  the  smile  that  struck  me  with 
dread  passed,  and  he  said,  as  he  drew  himself  up 
with  a  shake  :  ‘  Shon  McGann  and  I  were  good 
friends — as  good  as  ever  shared  a  blanket  or  split  a 
loaf,  though  he  was  free  of  any  evil,  and  I  failed  of 
any  good.  .  .  .  Well,  there  came  a  change.  We 
parted.  We  could  meet  no  more  ;  but  who  could 
have  guessed  V/A  thing  ?  Yet,  hear  me — I  am  no 
enemy  of  Shon  McGann,  as  let  my  deeds  to  you  prove.’ 
And  he  paused  again,  but  added  presently  :  ‘  It’s 


A  SANCTUAIiY  OF  THE  PLAINS. 


301 


better  you  should  have  come  now  than  two  years 
ago/ 

“  And  I  had  a  fear  in  my  heart,  and  to  this  asked 
him  why,  ‘  Because  then  he  was  a  friend  of  mine,’ 
he  said,  ‘  and  ill  always  comes  to  those  who  are  such.’ 
I  was  troubled  at  this,  and  asked  him  if  Shon  was  in 
Pipi  Valley  yet.  ‘  I  do  not  know,’  said  he,  ‘  for  I’ve 
traveled  long  and  far  from  there  ;  still,  while  I  do 
not  wish  to  put  doubt  into  your  mind,  I  have  a 
thought  he  may  be  gone.  .  .  .  He  had  a  gay  heart,’ 
he  continued,  ‘  and  we  saw  brave  days  together.’ 

“  And  though  I  questioned  him,  he  told  me  little 
more,  but  became  silent,  scannin’  the  plains  as  we 
rode  ;  but  once  or  twice  he  looked  at  me  in  a  strange 
fashion,  and  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead, 
and  a  gray  look  came  upon  his  face.  I  asked  him 
if  he  was  not  well.  ‘  Only  a  kind  of  fightin’ within,’ 
he  said  ;  ‘  such  things  soon  pass,  and  it  is  well  they 
do,  or  we  should  break  to  pieces.’ 

“  And  I  said  again  that  I  wished  not  to  bring  him 
into  danger.  And  he  replied  that  these  matters 
were  accordin’  to  Fate  ;  that  men  like  him  must  go 
on  when  once  the  die  is  cast,  for  they  cannot  turn 
back.  It  seemed  to  me  a  bitter  creed,  and  I  was 
sorry  for  him.  Then  for  hours  we  kept  an  almost 
steady  silence,  and  cornin’  at  last  to  the  top  of  a  rise 
of  land  he  pointed  to  a  spot  far  off  on  the  plains, 
and  said  that  you.  Father,  lived  there  ;  and  that  he 
would  go  with  me  still  a  little  way,  and  then  leave 
me,  I  urged  him  to  go  at  once,  but  he  would  not, 
and  we  came  down  into  the  plains.  He  had  not 
ridden  far  when  he  said  sharply  : 

“  ‘  The  Riders  of  the  Plains,  those  gentlemen  who 
seek  me,  are  there — see !  Ride  on  or  stay,  which 


302 


PIERRE  AND  IIIS  PEOPLE. 


you  please.  If  you  go  you  Vv^ill  reach  the  priest,  if 
you  stay  here  where  I  shall  leave  you,  you  will  see  me 
taken  perhaps,  and  it  may  be  fightin’  or  death  ;  but 
you  will  be  safe  with  them.  On  the  whole,  it  is  best, 
perhaps,  that  you  should  ride  away  to  the  priest. 
They  might  not  believe  all  that  you  told  them,  ridin’ 
with  me  as  you  are.’ 

“  But  I  think  a  sudden  madness  again  came  upon 
me.  Rememberin’  what  things  were  done  by  wo¬ 
men  for  refugees  in  old  Donegal,  and  that  this  man 
had  risked  his  life  for  me,  I  swung  my  horse  round 
nose  and  nose  with  his,  and  drew  my  revolver,  and 
said  that  I  should  see  whatever  came  to  him.  He 
prayed  me  not  to  do  so  wild  a  thing;  but  when  I 
refused,  and  pushed  on  along  with  him,  makin’  at 
an  angle  for  some  wooded  hills,  I  saw  that  a  smile 
proud  and  gentle  played  upon  his  face.  We  had  al¬ 
most  reached  the  edge  of  the  wood  when  a  bullet 
whistled  by  us.  At  that  the  smile  passed  and  a 
strange  look  came  upon  him,  and  he  said  to  me  : 

“  ‘  This  must  end  here.  I  think  you  guess  I  have 
no  coward’s  blood  ;  but  I  am  sick  to  the  teeth  of 
fightin’.  I  do  not  wish  to  shock  you,  but  I  swear, 
unless  you  turn  and  ride  away  to  the  left  towards  the 
priest’s  house,  I  shall  save  those  fellows  further 
trouble  by  killin’  myself  here ;  and  there,’  said  he, 
‘  would  be  a  pleasant  place  to  die — at  the  feet  of  a 
woman  who  trusted  you.’ 

“  I  knew  by  the  look  in  his  eye  he  would  keep  his 
word. 

“  ‘  Oh,  is  this  so  ?  ’  I  said. 

“  ‘  It  is  so,’  he  replied,  ‘  and  it  shall  be  done 
quickly,  for  the  courage  to  death  is  on  me.’ 

“  ‘  But  if  I  go,  you  will  still  try  to  escape  ?  ’  I 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  3°3 

said.  And  he  answered  that  he  would.  Then  I 
spoke  a  God-bless-you,  at  which  he  smiled  and  shook 
his  head,  and  leanin’  over,  touched  my  hand,  and 
spoke  low  :  ‘When  you  see  Shon  McGann,  tell  him 
what  I  did,  and  say  that  we  are  even  now.  Say  also 
that  you  called  Heaven  to  bless  me,’  Then  we 
swung  away  from  each  other,  and  the  troopers 
followed  after  him,  but  let  me  go  my  way  ;  from 
which  I  guessed  they  saw  I  was  a  woman.  And  as 
I  rode  I  heard  shots,  and  turned  to  see  ;  but  my 
horse  stumbled  on  a  hole  and  we  fell  together,  and 
when  I  waked,  I  saw  that  the  poor  beast’s  legs  were 
broken.  So  I  ended  its  misery,  and  made  mj^  way 
as  best  I  could  by  the  stars  to  your  house  ;  but  I 
turned  sick  and  fainted  at  the  door,  and  knew  no 
more  until  this  hour.  ...  You  thought  me  dead. 
Father  ?  ” 

The  priest  bowed  his  head,  and  said  :  “  These  are 
strange,  sad  things,  my  child ;  and  they  shall  seem 
stranger  to  you  when  you  hear  all.” 

“  When  I  hear  all!  Ah,  tell  me,  father,  do  you 
know  Shon  McGann  ?  Can  you  take  me  to  him  ?  ” 
“  I  know  him,  but  I  do  not  know  where  he  is. 
He  left  the  Pipi  Valley  eighteen  months  ago,  and 
I  never  saw  him  afterwards  ;  still  I  doubt  not  he  is 
somewhere  on  the  plains,  and  we  shall  find  him — 
we  shall  find  him,  please  Heaven,” 

“Is  he  a  good  lad.  Father  ?  ” 

“  He  is  brave,  and  he  was  always  kind.  He  came 
to  me  before  he  left  the  valley — for  he  had  trouble — 
and  said  to  me  :  ‘  Father,  I  am  going  away,  and  to 
what  place  is  far  from  me  to  know,  but  wherever  it 
is.  I’ll  live  a  life  that’s  fit  for  men,  and  not  like  a 
loafer  on  God’s  world;  ’  and  he  gave  me  money  for 
masses  to  be  said — for  the  dead,” 


304  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

The  girl  put  out  her  hand.  “  Hush  !  hush  !  ”  She 
said.  “  Let  me  think.  Masses  for  the  dead.  .  .  . 
What  dead  ?  Not  for  me  ;  he  thought  me  dead  long 
ago.” 

“  No  ;  not  for  you,”  was  the  slow  reply. 

She  noticed  his  hesitation,  and  said  :  “Speak.  I 
know  that  there  is  sorrow  on  him.  Some  one — some¬ 
one — he  loved  ?  ” 

“  Some  one  he  loved,”  was  the  reply. 

“  And  she  died  ?  ”  The  priest  bowed  his  head. 

“  She  was  his  wife — Shon’s  wife  ?  ”  and  Mary 
Callen  could  not  hide  from  her  words  the  hurt  she 
felt. 

“  I  married  her  to  him,  but  yet  she  was  not  his 
wife.” 

There  was  a  keen  distress  in  the  girl’s  voice. 
“  Father,  tell  me,  tell  me  what  you  mean.” 

“  Hush,  and  I  will  tell  you  all.  He  married  her 
thinking,  and  she  thinking,  that  she  was  a  widowed 
woman.  But  her  husband  came  back.  A  terrible 
thing  happened.  The  woman  believing,  at  a  painful 
time,  that  he  who  came  back  was  about  to  take 
Shon’s  life,  fired  at  him,  and  wounded  him,  and  then 
killed  herself.” 

Mary  Callen  raised  herself  upon  her  elbow,  and 
looked  at  the  priest  in  piteous  bewilderment.  “  It 
is  dreadful,”  she  said.  .  .  .  “  Poor  woman  !  .  .  . 
And  he  had  forgotten — forgotten  me.  I  was  dead 
to  him,  and  am  dead  to  him  now.  There’s  nothing 
left  but  to  draw  the  cold  sheet  of  the  grave  over  me. 
Better  for  me  if  I  had  never  come — if  I  had  never 
come,  and  instead  were  lyin’  by  his  father  and 
mother  beneath  the  rowan.” 

The  priest  took  her  wrist  firmly  in  his.  “  These 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS. 


305 


are  not  brave  nor  Christian  words,  from  a  brave  and 
Christian  girl.  But  I  know  that  grief  makes  one’s 
words  wild.  Shon  McCann  shall  be  found.  In  the 
days  when  I  saw  him  most  and  best,  he  talked  of 
you  as  an  angel  gone,  and  he  had  never  sought  an¬ 
other  woman  had  he  known  that  you  lived.  The 
Mounted  Police,  the  Riders  of  the  Plains,  travel  far 
and  wide.  But  now,  there  has  come  from  the  farther 
West  a  new  detachment  to  Fort  Cypress,  and  they 
may  be  able  to  help  us.  But  listen.  There  is  some¬ 
thing  more.  The  man  Pretty  Pierre,  did  he  not 
speak  puzzling  words  concerning  himself  and  Shon 
McCann  ?  And  did  he  not  say  to  you  at  the  last 
that  they  were  even  now  ?  Well,  can  you  not 
guess  ?” 

Mary  Callen’s  bosom  heaved  painfully  and  her 
eyes  stared  so  at  the  candle  in  the  window  that  they 
seemed  to  grow  one  with  the  flame.  At  last  a  new 
look  crept  into  them  ;  a  thought  made  the  lids  close 
quickly  as  though  it  burned  them.  When  they 
opened  again  they  were  full  of  tears  that  shone  in 
the  shadow  and  dropped  slowly  on  her  cheeks  and 
flowed  on  and  on,  quivering  too  in  her  throat. 

The  priest  said  :  “  You  understand,  my  child  ?  ” 

And  she  answered :  “  I  understand.  Pierre,  the 
outlaw,  was  her  husband.” 

Father  Corraine  rose  and  sat  beside  the  table,  his 
book  of  offices  open  before  him.  At  length  he  said  : 
“  There  is  much  that  might  be  spoken  ;  for  the  Church 
has  words  for  every  hour  of  man’s  life,  whatever  it 
be  ;  but  there  comes  to  me  now  a  word  to  say,  neither 
from  prayer  nor  psalm,  but  from  the  songs  of  a  coun¬ 
try  where  good  women  are  ;  where  however  poor  the 
fireside,  the  loves  beside  it  are  born  of  the  love  of 

20 


3o6 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


God,  though  the  tongue  be  angry  now  and  then,  the 
foot  stumble,  and  the  hand  quick  at  a  blow.”  Then, 
with  a  soft,  ringing  voice,  he  repeated : 

“  ‘  New  friends  will  clasp  your  hand,  dear,  new  faces  on  you  smile — 

You’ll  bide  with  them  and  love  them,  but  you’ll  long  for  us  the  while  ; 
F or  the  word  across  the  water,  and  the  farewell  by  the  stile— 

For  the  true  heart’s  here,  my  darlin’.’  ” 


Mary  Callen’s  tears  flowed  afresh  at  first :  but 
soon  after  the  voice  ceased  she  closed  her  eyes  and 
her  sobs  stopped,  and  Father  Corraine  sat  down 
and  became  lost  in  thought  as  he  watched  the  candle. 
Then  there  went  a  word  among  the  spirits  watching 
that  he  was  not  thinking  of  the  candle,  or  of  them 
that  the  candle  was  to  light  on  the  way,  nor  even  of 
this  girl  near  him,  but  of  a  summer  forty  years  gone 
when  he  was  a  goodly  youth,  with  the  red  on  his  lip 
and  the  light  in  his  eye,  and  before  him,  leaning  on 
a  stile,  was  a  lass  with — 

“  .  .  .  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day.” 

And  all  the  good  world  swam  in  circles,  eddying 
ever  inward  until  it  streamed  intensely  and  joyously 
through  her  eyes  “blue  as  the  fairy  flax.”  And  he 
had  carried  the  remembrance  of  this  away  into  the 
world  with  him,  but  had  never  gone  back  again.  He 
had  traveled  beyond  the  seas  to  live  among  savages 
and  wear  out  his  life  in  self-denial ;  and  now  he 
had  come  to  the  evening  of  his  life,  a  benignant 
figure  in  a  lonely  land.  And  as  he  sat  here  murmur¬ 
ing  mechanically  bits  of  an  office,  his  heart  and  mind 
were  with  a  sacred  and  distant  past.  Yet  the  spirits 
recorded  both  these  things  on  their  tablets,  as  though 
both  were  worthy  of  their  remembrance. 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  307 


He  did  not  know  that  he  kept  repeating  two 
sentences  over  and  over  to  himself  : 

“  ‘  Quouiam  ipse  liberavit  me  de  laqueo  venantium  et  a  verbo  aspero. 

Quoniam  angelis  suis  mandavit  de  te  :  ut  custodiant  te  in  omnibus  viis 
tuis.’  ” 

These  he  said  at  first  softly  to  himself,  but  uncon¬ 
sciously  his  voice  became  louder,  so  that  the  girl 
heard,  and  she  said : 

“  Father  Corraine,  what  are  those  words?  I  do 
not  understand  them,  but  they  sound  comforting.” 

And  he,  waking  from  his  dream,  changed  the 
Latin  into  English,  and  said  : 

For  he  hath  delivered  me  from  the  snare  of  the  hunter,  and  from  the 
sharp  sword. 

For  he  hath  given  his  angels  charge  over  thee,  to  keep  thee  in  all  thy 
ways  ?  ’  ” 

“  The  words  are  good,”  she  said.  He  then  told 
her  he  was  going  out,  but  that  he  should  be  within 
call,  saying,  at  the  same  time,  that  some  one  would 
no  doubt  arrive  from  Fort  Cypress  soon:  and  he 
went  from  the  house.  Then  the  girl  rose  slowly, 
crept  lamely  to  a  chair  and  sat  down.  Outside, 
the  priest  paced  up  and  down,  stopping  now  and  then, 
and  listening  as  if  for  horses’  hoofs.  At  last  he 
walked  some  distance  away  from  the  house,  deeply 
lost  in  thought,  and  he  did  not  notice  that  a  man 
came  slowly,  heavily,  to  the  door  of  the  hut,  and 
opening  it,  entered. 

Mary  Callen  rose  from  her  seat  with  a  cry  in 
which  was  timidity,  pity,  and  something  of  horror  ; 
for  it  was  Pretty  Pierre.  She  recoiled,  but  seeing 
how  he  swayed  with  weakness,  and  that  his  clothes 
had  blood  upon  them,  she  helped  him  to  a  chair. 
He  looked  up  at  her  with  an  enigmatical  smile,  but 
he  did  not  speak. 


3o8  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

“  Oh,”  she  whispered,  “you  are  wounded?” 

He  nodded ;  but  still  he  did  not  speak.  Then 
his  lips  moved  dryly.  She  brought  him  water.  He 
drank  deeply,  and  a  sigh  of  relief  escaped  him.  “  You 
got  here  safely,”  he  now  said.  “  I  am  glad  of  that 
— though  you,  too,  are  hurt.” 

She  briefly  told  him  how,  and  then  he  said  : 
“Well,  I  suppose  you  know  all  of  me  now  ?  ” 

“  I  know  what  happened  in  Pipi  Valley,”  she 
said,  timidly  and  wearily.  “  Father  Corraine  told 
me.” 

“  Where  is  he  ?  ” 

When  she  had  answered  him,  he  said  :  “  And  you 
are  willing  to  speak  with  me  still  ?  ” 

“  You  saved  me,”  was  her  brief,  convincing  reply. 
“  How  did  you  escape  ?  Did  you  fight  ?  ” 

“  No,”  he  said.  “  It  is  strange.  I  did  not  fight 
at  all.  As  I  said  to  you,  I  was  sick  of  blood. 
These  men  were  only  doing  their  duty.  I  might 
have  killed  two  or  three  of  them,  and  have  escaped, 
but  to  what  good  ?  When  they  shot  my  horse, — my 
good  Sacrament, — and  put  a  bullet  into  this  shoul¬ 
der,  I  crawled  away  still,  and  led  them  a  dance,  and 
doubled  on  them ;  and  here  I  am.” 

“  It  is  wonderful  that  they  have  not  been  here,” 
she  said. 

“  Yes,  it  is  wonderful ;  but  be  very  sure  they  will 
be,  with  that  candle  in  the  window.  Why  is  it 
there  ?  ” 

She  told  him.  He  lifted  his  brows  in  stoic  irony, 
and  said :  “  Well,  we  shall  have  an  army  of  them 
soon.”  He  rose  again  to  his  feet.  “  I  do  not  wish 
to  die,  and  I  always  said  that  I  would  never  go  to 
prison.  Do  you  understand  ?  ” 


A  SANCTUAKY  OF  THE  PLAINS. 


309 


‘‘Yes,”  she  replied.  She  went  immediately  to 
the  window,  took  the  candle  from  it,  and  put  it  be¬ 
hind  an  improvised  shade.  No  sooner  was  this 
done  than  Father  Corraine  entered  the  room,  and 
seeing  the  outlaw,  said:  “You  have  come  here, 
Pierre  ?  ”  And  his  face  showed  wonder  and  anxiety. 

“  I  have  come,  Father,  for  sanctuary.” 

“  For  sanctuary !  But,  my  son,  if  I  vex  not 
Heaven  by  calling  you  so,  why  ”  —  he  saw  Pierre 
stagger  slightly.  “  But  you  are  wounded.”  He  put 
his  arm  round  the  other’s  shoulder,  and  supported 
him  till  he  recovered  himself.  Then  he  set  to  work 
to  bandage  anew  the  wound,  from  which  Pien-e  him¬ 
self  had  not  unskilfully  extracted  the  bullet.  While 
doing  so,  the  outlaw  said  to  him  : 

“  Father  Corraine,  I  am  hunted  like  a  coyote  for 
a  crime  which  is  not  mine.  But  if  I  am  caught 
they  will  no  doubt  charge  me  with  other  things  — 
ancient  things.  Well,  I  have  said  that  I  should 
never  be  sent  to  jail,  and  I  never  shall;  but  I  do 
not  wish  to  die  at  this  moment,  and  I  do  not  wish 
to  fight.  What  is  there  left?” 

“  How  do  you  come  here,  Pierre?” 

He  lifted  his  eyes  heavily  to  Mary  Callen,  and 
she  told  Father  Corraine  what  had  been  told  her. 
When  she  had  finished,  Pierre  added ; 

“  I  am  no  coward,  as  you  will  guess,  but,  as  I 
said,  neither  jail  nor  death  do  I  wish.  Well,  if  they 
should  come  here,  and  you  said,  Pierre  is  not  here., 
even  though  I  was  in  the  next  room,  they  would  be¬ 
lieve  you,  and  they  would  not  search.  Well,  I  ask 
only  that  —  so.” 

The  priest  recoiled  and  raised  his  hand  in  protest. 
Then,  after  a  moment,  he  said : 


310 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


“  How  do  you  deserve  this  ?  Do  you  know  what 
you  ask  ?  ” 

“  My  Father,  I  know  it  is  immense,  and  I  deserve 
nothing  :  and  in  return  I  can  offer  nothing,  not  even 
that  I  will  repent.  And  I  have  done  no  good  in 
the  world  ;  but  still  perhaps  I  am  worth  the  saving, 
as  may  be  seen  in  the  end.  As  for  you  —  but  —  you 
will  do  a  little  wrong  so  that  the  end  will  be  right. 
So?” 

The  priest’s  eyes  looked  out  long  and  sadly  at  the 
man  from  under  his  venerable  brows,  as  though  he 
would  see  through  him  and  beyond  him  to  that  end ; 
and  at  last  he  spoke  in  a  low,  firm  voice  : 

“  Pierre,  you  have  been  a  bad  man ;  but  some¬ 
times  you  have  been  generous,  and  of  some  good 
acts  I  know - ” 

“  No,  not  good,”  the  other  interrupted.  “  I  ask 
this  of  your  charity.” 

“  There  is  the  law,  and  my  conscience.” 

“  The  law  !  the  law !  ”  and  there  was  sharp  satire 
in  the  half-breed’s  voice.  What  has  it  done  in  the 
West?  Think,  mo7i  P'ere  !  Do  you  not  know  a  hun¬ 
dred  cases  where  the  law  has  done  wrong?  There 
was  more  justice  before  we  had  law.  Law — •”  And 
he  named  over  swiftly,  scornfully,  a  score  of  names 
and  incidents,  to  which  Father  Corraine  listened  in¬ 
tently.  “  But,”  said  Pierre,  gently,  at  last,  “  but  for 
your  conscience,  ah,  that  is  greater  than  law.  For 
you  are  a  good  man  and  a  wise  man  ;  and  you  know 
that  I  shall  pay  my  debts  of  every  kind  some  sure 
day.  That  should  satisfy  yo7ir  justice,  but  )^ou  are 
merciful  for  the  moment,  and  you  will  spare  until 
the  time  be  come,  until  the  corn  is  ripe  in  the  ear. 
Why  should  I  plead  ?  It  is  foolish.  Still,  it  is  my 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  311 

whim,  of  which,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  sorry  to-morrow. 
.  .  .  Hark  !  ”  he  added,  and  then  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  smiled.  There  were  sounds  of  hoof- 
beats  coming  faintly  to  them.  Father  Corraine 
threw  open  the  door  of  the  other  room  of  the  hut, 
and  said  :  “  Go  in  there — Pierre.  We  shall  see  .  .  . 
we  shall  see.” 

The  outlaw  looked  at  the  priest,  as  if  hesitating ; 
but,  after,  nodded  meaningly  to  himself,  and  entered 
the  room  and  shut  the  door.  The  priest  stood  lis¬ 
tening.  When  the  hoof-beats  stopped,  he  opened 
the  door,  and  went  out.  In  the  dark  he  could  see 
that  men  were  dismounting  from  their  horses.  He 
stood  still  and  waited.  Presently  a  trooper  stepped 
forward  and  said  warmly,  yet  brusquely,  as  became 
his  office  :  “Father  Corraine,  we  meet  again  !  ” 

The  priest’s  face  was  overswept  by  many  expres¬ 
sions,  in  which  marvel  and  trouble  were  uppermost, 
while  joy  was  in  less  distinctness. 

“  Surely,”  he  said,  “  it  is  Shon  McGann.” 

“  Shon  McGann,  and  no  other. — I  that  laughed  at 
the  law  for  many  a  year, — though  never  breakin’  it 
beyond  repair, — took  your  advice.  Father  Corraine, 
and  here  I  am,  holdin’  that  law  now  as  my  bosom 
friend  at  the  saddle’s  pommel.  Co^'poral  Shon  Mc¬ 
Gann,  at  your  service.” 

They  clasped  hands,  and  the  priest  said  :  “You 
have  come  at  my  call  from  Fort  Cypress?” 

“Yes.  But  not  these  others.  They  are  after  a 
man  that’s  played  ducks  and  drakes  with  the  statutes 
— Heaven  be  merciful  to  him,  I  say.  For  there’s 
naught  I  treasure  against  him ;  the  will  of  God  bein’ 
in  it  all,  with  some  doin’  of  the  Devil,  too,  maybe.” 

Pretty  Pierre,  standing  with  ear  to  the  window  of 


312 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


the  dark  room,  heard  all  this,  and  he  pressed  his 
upper  lip  hard  with  his  forefinger,  as  if  something 
disturbed  him. 

Shon  continued :  “  I’m  glad  I  wasn’t  sent  after 
him  as  all  these  here  know ;  for  it’s  little  I’d  like  to 
clap  irons  on  his  wrists,  or  whistle  him  to  come  to 
me  with  a  Winchester  or  a  Navy.  So  I’m  here  on 
my  business,  and  they’re  here  on  theirs.  Though 
we  come  together  it’s  because  we  met  each  other 
hereaway.  They’ve  a  thought  that,  maybe.  Pretty 
Pierre  has  taken  refuge  with  you.  They’ll  little  like 
to  disturb  you,  I  know.  But  with  dead  in  your 
house,  and  you  givin’  the  word  of  truth, — which 
none  other  could  fall  from  your  lips, — they’ll  go  on 
their  way  to  look  elsewhere.” 

The  priest’s  face  was  pinched,  and  there  was  a 
wrench  at  his  heart.  He  turned  to  the  others.  A 
trooper  stepped  forward. 

“  Father  Corraine,”  he  said,  “  it  is  my  duty  to 
search  your  house ;  but  not  a  foot  will  I  stretch 
across  your  threshold  if  you  say  No,  and  give  the 
word  that  the  man  is  not  with  you.” 

“  Corporal  McGann,”  said  the  priest,  “the  woman 
whom  I  thought  was  dead  did  not  die,  as  you  shall 
see.  There  is  no  need  for  inquiry.  But  she  will 
go  with  you  to  Fort  Cypress.  As  for  the  other,  you 
say  that  Father  Corraine’s  threshold  is  his  own,  and 
at  his  own  command.  His  home  is  now  a  sanctuary 
— for  the  afflicted.”  He  went  towards  the  door. 
As  he  did  so,  Mary  Callen,  who  had  been  listening 
inside  the  room  with  shaking  frame  and  bursting 
heart,  dropped  on  her  knees  beside  the  table,  her 
head  in  her  arms.  The  door  opened.  “  See,”  said 
the  priest,  “  a  woman  who  is  injured  and  suffering.” 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  PLAINS  313 

“  Ah,”  rejoined  the  trooper,  “  perhaps  it  is  the 
woman  who  was  riding  with  the  half-breed.  We 
found  her  dead  horse.” 

The  priest  nodded.  Shon  McGann  looked  at  the 
crouching  figure  by  the  table  pityingly.  As  he 
looked  he  was  stirred,  he  knew  not  why.  And  she, 
though  she  did  not  look,  knew  that  his  gaze  was  on 
her  ;  and  all  her  will  was  spent  in  holding  her  eyes 
from  his  face,  and  from  crying  out  to  him. 

“  And  Pretty  Pierre,”  said  the  trooper,  “  is  not 
here  with  her  ?  ” 

There  was  an  unfathomable  sadness  in  the  priest’s 
eyes,  as,  with  a  slight  motion  of  the  hand  towards 
tire  room,  he  said  :  “  You  see — he  is  not  here.” 

The  trooper  and  his  men  immediately  mounted  ; 
but  one  of  them,  young  Tim  Kearney,  slid  from  his 
horse,  and  came  and  dropped  on  his  knee  in  front  of 
the  priest. 

“  It’s  many  a  day,”  he  said,  “  since  before  God  or 
man  I  bent  a  knee — more  shame  to  me  for  that,  and 
for  mad  days  gone  ;  but  I  care  not  who  knows  it,  I 
want  a  word  of  blessin’  from  the  man  that’s  been 
out  here  like  a  saint  in  the  wilderness,  with  a  heart 
like  the  Son  o’  God.” 

The  priest  looked  at  the  man  at  first  as  if  scarce 
comprehending  this  act  so  familiar  to  him,  then  he 
slowly  stretched  out  his  hands,  said  some  words  in 
benediction,  and  made  the  sacred  gesture.  But  his 
face  had  a  strange  and  absent  look,  and  he  held  the 
hand  poised,  even  when  the  man  had  risen  and 
mounted  his  horse.  One  by  one  the  troopers  rode 
through  the  faint  belt  of  light  that  stretched  from  the 
door,  and  were  lost  in  the  darkness,  the  thud  of 
tlieir  horses’  hoofs  echoing  behind  them.  But  a 


3^4 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


change  had  come  over  Corporal  Shon  McGann,  He 
looked  at  Father  Corraine  with  concern  and  per¬ 
plexity.  He  alone  of  those  who  were  there  had 
caught  the  unreal  note  in  the  proceedings.  His 
eyes  were  bent  on  the  darkness  into  which  the  man 
had  gone,  and  his  fingers  toyed  for  an  instant  with 
his  whistle  ;  but  he  said  a  hard  word  of  himself  un¬ 
der  his  breath,  and  turned  to  meet  Father  Corraine’s 
hand  upon  his  arm. 

“  Shon  McGann,”  the  priest  said,  “  I  have  words 
to  say  to  you  concerning  this  poor  girl.” 

“You  wish  to  have  her  taken  to  the  Fort,  I  sup¬ 
pose  ?  What  was  she  doing  with  Pretty  Pierre  ?  ” 

“  I  wish  her  taken  to  her  home.” 

“  Where  is  her  home,  Father  ?  ”  And  his  eyes 
were  cast  with  trouble  on  the  girl,  though  he  could 
assign  no  cause  for  that. 

“  Her  home,  Shon,” — the  priest’s  voice  was  very 
gentle — “  her  home  was  where  they  sing  such  words 
as  these  of  a  wanderer  : 

“  ‘  You’ll  hear  the  wild  birds  singin  beneath  a  brighter  sky, 

The  roof-tree  of  your  home,  dear,  it  will  be  grand  and  high ; 

But  you’ll  hunger  for  the  hearthstone  where  a  child  you  used  to  lie— 

You’ll  be  cornin’  back,  my  darlin’.’  ” 

During  these  words  Shon’s  face  ran  white,  then 
red  ;  and  now  he  stepped  inside  the  door  like  one  in 
a  dream,  and  her  face  was  lifted  to  his  as  though  he 
had  called  her.  “  Mary — Mary  Callen  !  ”  he  cried. 
His  arms  spread  out,  then  dropped  to  his  side,  and 
he  fell  on  his  knees  by  the  table  facing  her,  and 
looked  at  her  with  love  and  horror  warring  in  his 
face ;  for  the  remembrance  that  she  had  been  with 
Pierre  was  like  the  hand  of  the  grave  upon  him. 
Moving  not  at  all,  she  looked  at  him,  a  numb  de- 


A  SAJVCTl/AJiY  OF  THE  PLAINS. 


315 


spondency  in  her  face.  Suddenly  Shon’s  look  grew 
stern,  and  he  was  about  to  rise ;  but  Father  Corraine 
put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said  :  “  Stay  where 
you  are,  man — on  your  knees.  There  is  your  place 
just  now.  Be  not  so  quick  to  judge,  and  remember 
your  own  sins  before  you  charge  others  without 
knowledge.  Listen  now  to  me.” 

And  he  spoke  Mary  Callen’s  tale  as  he  knew  it, 
and  as  she  had  given  it  to  him,  not  forgetting  to 
mention  that  she  had  been  told  the  thing  which  had 
occurred  in  Pipi  Valley. 

The  heroic  devotion  of  this  woman,  and  Pretty 
Pierre’s  act  of  friendship  to  her,  together  with  the 
swift  panorama  of  his  past  across  the  seas,  awoke 
the  wLole  man  in  Shon,  as  the  staunch  life  that  he 
had  lately  led  rendered  it  possible.  There  was  a 
noble  look  upon  his  face  when  he  rose  at  the  ending 
of  the  tale,  and  came  to  her  saying  : 

“  Mary,  ’tis  I  who  need  forgiveness.  Will  you 
come  now  to  the  home  you  wanted?  ”  and  he  stretched 
his  arms  to  her.  .  .  . 

An  hour  after,  as  the  three  sat  there,  the  door  of 
the  other  room  opened,  and  Pretty  Pierre  came  out 
silently  and  was  about  to  pass  from  the  hut ;  but  the 
priest  put  a  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said ; 

“  Where  do  you  go,  Pierre  ?  ” 

Pierre  shrugged  his  shoulder  slightly : 

“  I  do  not  know.  Mon  Dieu  I — that  I  have  put 
this  upon  you ! — you  that  never  spoke  but  the  truth  !  ” 

“You  have  made  my  sin  of  no  avail,”  the  priest 
replied ;  and  he  motioned  toward  Shon  McGann, 
who  was  now  risen  to  his  feet,  Mary  clinging  to  his 
arm. 

“  Father  Corraine,”  said  Shon,  “  it  is  my  duty  to 


3i6 


PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 


arrest  this  man ;  but  I  cannot  do  it,  would  not  do  it, 
if  he  came  and  offered  his  arms  for  the  steel.  Pll  take 
the  wrong  of  this  now,  sir,  and  such  shame  as  there 
is  in  that  falsehood  on  my  shoulders.  And  she  here 
and  I,  and  this  man  too,  I  doubt  not,  will  carry  your 
sin — as  you  call  it — to  our  graves,  as  a  holy  thing.” 

Father  Corraine  shook  his  head  sadly,  and  made 
no  reply,  for  his  soul  was  heavy.  He  motioned  them 
all  to  sit  down.  And  they  sat  there  by  the  light  of 
a  flickering  candle,  with  the  door  bolted  and  a  cas¬ 
sock  hung  across  the  window,  lest  by  any  chance  this 
uncommon  thing  should  be  seen.  But  the  priest 
remained  in  a  shadowed  corner,  with  a  little  book  in 
his  hand  and  he  was  long  on  his  knees.  And  when 
morning  came  they  had  neither  slept  nor  changed 
the  fashion  of  their  watch,  save  for  a  moment  now 
and  then,  when  Pierre  suffered  from  the  pain  of  his 
wound,  and  silently  passed  up  and  down  the  little 
room. 

The  morning  was  half  gone  when  Shon  McGann 
and  Mary  Callen  stood  beside  their  horses,  ready  to 
mount  and  go  ;  for  Mary  had  persisted  that  she  could 
travel  ;  joy  makes  such  marvelous  healing.  When 
the  moment  of  parting  came,  Pierre  was  not  there. 
Mary  whispered  to  her  lover  concerning  this.  The 
priest  went  to  the  door  of  the  hut  and  called  him,  and 
he  came  out  slowly. 

“Pierre,”  said  Shon,  “there’s  a  word  to  be  said 
betune  us  that  had  best  be  spoken  now,  though  it ’s 
not  aisy.  It’s  little  you  or  I  will  care  to  meet  again 
in  this  world.  There’s  been  credit  given  and  debts 
paid  by  both  of  us  since  the  hour  when  we  first  met  \ 
and  it  needs  thinkin’  to  tell  which  is  the  debtor 
now,  for  deeds  are  hard  to  reckon ;  but,  before  God, 


A  SANCTUARY  OF  THE  TLA/NS.  3^7 

I  believe  it’s  meself ;  ”  and  he  turned  and  looked 
fondly  at  Mary  Callen. 

The  other  replied :  “  Shon  McGann,  I  make  no 
close  counting ;  but  we  will  square  all  accounts 
here,  as  you  say,  and  for  the  last  time  ;  for  never 
again  shall  we  meet,  if  it’s  within  my  will  or  doing. 
But  I  say  I  am  the  debtor ;  and  if  I  pay  not  here, 
there  will  come  a  time  !  ”  and  he  caught  his  shoulder  as 
it  shrunk  in  pain  of  his  wound.  He  tapped  the  wound 
lightly,  and  said  with  irony  :  “  This  is  my  note  of 
hand  for  my  debt,  Shon  McGann.  Eh,  bie?i.Ul 

Then  he  tossed  his  fingers  indolently  towards 
Shon,  and  turning  his  eyes  slowly  to  Mary  Callen, 
raised  his  hat  in  good-bye.  She  put  out  her  hand 
impulsively  to  him,  but  Pierre,  shaking  his  head, 
looked  away.  Shon  put  his  hand  gently  on  her  arm. 
“  No,  no,”  he  said  in  a  whisper,  “  there  can  be  no 
touch  of  hands  between  us.” 

And  Pierre,  looking  up,  added  :  “  That  is  the 
truth.  You  go — home.  I  go — to  hide.  So — so.  .  .” 

And  he  turned  and  went  into  the  hut. 

The  others  set  their  faces  northward,  and  Father 
Corraine  walked  beside  Mary  Callen’s  horse,  talking 
quietly  of  their  future  life,  and  speaking,  as  he  would 
never  speak  again,  of  days  in  that  green  land  of  their 
birth.  At  length,  upon  a  dividing  swell  of  the  prairie, 
he  paused  to  say  farewell. 

Many  times  the  two  turned  to  see,  and  he  was 
there,  looking  after  them  ;  his  forehead  bared  to  the 
clear  inspiring  wind,  his  gray  hair  blown  back,  his 
hands  clasped.  Before  descending  the  trough  of  a 
great  landwave,  they  turned  for  the  last  time,  and 
saw  him  standing  motionless,  the  one  solitary  being 
in  all  their  wide  horizon. 


3i8  PIERRE  AND  HIS  PEOPLE. 

But  outside  the  line  of  vision  there  sat  a  man  in  a 
prairie  hut,  whose  eyes  traveled  over  the  valley  of 
blue  sky  stretching  away  beyond  the  morning,  whose 
face  was  pale  and  cold.  For  hours  he  sat  unmoving, 
and  when,  at  last,  some  one  gently  touched  him  on  the 
shoulder,  he  only  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  think- 
ing. 

He  was  busy  with  the  grim  ledger  of  his  life. 


THE  END. 


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